LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

GIFT  OK 


Received 
Accession  No.  7/  7  1{~J       •    Class  No. 


I 


THE 


OUTHERN    AMARANTH, 


EDITED     BY 


/VLlSS     J3ALLIE      ,A.    -J3ROCK 


NEW    YORK : 
WILCOX    &    ROCKWELL, 

SUCCESSORS  TO  BLELOCK  &  Co., 

49  MERCER    ST. 

1869. 


7  /  7  V/ 

Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1868, 

WILCOX  &  ROCKWELL, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


THE     MEMOBT 
OF    THE 

nf  tft  er  a  tje  g 


I    DEDICATE 
THIS     VOLUME. 

Can  that  man  be  dead 

Whose  spiritual  influence  is  upon  his  kind  ? 
He  lives  in  glory  ;  and  his  speaking  dust 
Has  more  of  life  than  half  its  breathing  moulds. 

Miss  LAKDOM, 

Death  is  another  life. 

BAILET. 


THE  design  of  this  work  was  conceived  in  an  individual 
clesire  to  offer  a  testimonial  of  gratitude  to  the  memories 
of  the  brave  men  who  perished  in  the  late  ineffectual  effort 
for  SOUTHERN  INDEPENDENCE  ;  as  well  as  in  a  wish  to 
render  to  my  Southern  sisters  some  assistance  in  gather 
ing  up  the  remains  of  the  CONFEDEEATE  DEAD,  from  the 
numberless  battle-fields  over  which  they  were  scattered, 
and  placing  them  where  the  rude  ploughshare  may  not 
upturn  their  bleaching  bones,  and  where  sorrowing  friends 
may  at  least  drop  a  tear,  and  lay  a,  flower  upon  the  grass- 
covered  hillocks  that  mark  their  resting-places. 

Like  Ruth  after  the  gleaners  of  Boaz,  I  entered  the  field 
in  expectation  of  finding  only  an  occasional  idyl  for  my 
culling;  but  the  growth  of  Southern  sentiment  seems 
destined  to  be  perennial  and  inexhaustible,  and  I 
deeply  regret  that  a  vast  number  of  beautiful  and  worthy 
productions  are  compelled  for  want  of  space  to  be 
crowded  out  of  this  volume. 

When  the  grape  is  crushed,  the  rich  ruddy  wine  must 
flow;  so  when  the  heart  joys  or  sorrows,  it  delights  to  ex 
pand  its  emotion  in  the  flow  of  verse.  The  muse  of  the 
.Southland  is  one  of  tireless  wing,  and  though  her  theme 
is  lofty  and  glorious  as  the  golden  sunset  splendor  upon 
ifche  purple  sky  of  e  v^ening,  her  song  is  often  as  sad  as  the 


VI  PREFACE. 

weary  echoes  of  the  winter  wind  through  her  matchless 
forests — the  mournful  wailings  of  broken  hearts. 

Grateful  acknowledgments  are  here  tendered  the  many 
kind  friends  who  have  so  deeply  sympathized  with  and 
generously  assisted  me  in  making  this  collection.  In  the 
language  of  one  whose  noble  soul  is  bowed  with  grief 
over  the  martyred  slain: — "All  we  can  now  do  is  to  sing 
at  the  graves  of  our  Dead  ;  but  sing  as  we  may,  in  lofty 
strains  or  lowly,  our  songs  can  never  express  all  our 
feelings — can  never  celebrate  all  their  fame.  A  crown 
such  as  our  Dead  deserve  to  wear,  will  never  be 
wreathed  for  them,  but  it  is  our  duty  to  gather  garlands, 
which  if  not  beautiful  enough  for  their  brows,  we  can 
humbly  lay  at  their  feet." 

Therefore,  such  as  it  is,  dear  reader,  I  cheerfully  and 
proudly  present  "THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH,"  hoping  it 
may  be  considered  a  not  unworthy  offering  to  the  memo 
ries  of  men  whose  deeds  are  worthy  of  more  than  ever 
songs  of  poets  can  tell. 

S.  A.  B. 

NEW  YOKK,  March,  1,  1868. 


CONTENTS. 


Poems  marked  with  an  asterisk  [*]  are  special  contributions. 

SENTINEL  SONGS Moina,   [Kev.  A.  J.  Byan].  13 

SONNET Paul  H.  Hayne.  15 

PRIZE  POEM Ibid.  16 

PASCAGOULA Anonymous.  26 

PEACE L.  Burroughs.  30 

HOME— AFTER  THE  WAR M.  E.  H.  32 

SOUTHERN  CHANT  OP  DEFIANCE Catherine  A.  Warfield.  34 

THE  FALL  OF  RICHMOND Sallie  A.  Brock.  36 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  POWHATAN Ibid.  46 

THE  SUBSTITUTE Paul  H.  Hayne.  61 

PRIZE  POEM  (Address) Henry  Timrod.  67 

THE  GUERRILLAS S.  Teackle  Wallis.  71 

COERCION John  R.  Thompson.  74 

THE  SOUTHERN  CROSS St.  George  Tucker.  76 

THE  MEN Maurice  Bell.  78 

WOMAN'S  WAR  MISSION Anon,  79 

THE  BATTLE  CRY  OF  THE  SOUTH James  B.  Randall.  82 

OUR  FAITH  IN  SIXTY-ONE A.  J.  Bequier.  85 

SEVENTY-SIX  AND  SIXTY-ONE John  W.  Overall.  88 

A  BALLAD  FOR  THE  YOUNG  SOUTH Joseph  Brennan.  89 

THERE  is  LIFE  IN  THE  OLD  LAND  YET.  .James  R.  Randall.  93 

THE  SCOUT Sans  Souci.  95 

ON   TO  KICHMOND John  B.  Thompson.  97 

THE  MONUMENT  OAK  AND  PINE J.  B.  Barrick  102 

THE  WAYSIDE  ROSE Dr.  John  M.  Johnson.  104 

THE  CHARGE  BY  THE  FORD Thomas  Dunn  English.  105 

OF  VERY  FAITHFULNESS Mollie  E.  Moore.  107 

THE  VICTORY  OF  FAITH Col.  Wm.  S.  Hawkins.  109 

BAIN  IN  THE  HEART Anon.  113 

THE  VIRGINIANS  OF  THE  VALLEY  ....     Dr.  Frank  O.  Ticknor.  114 

A  PRAYER Fadette  (Author  of  Ingemisco).  115 

THE  CLOSING  SCENE Thos.  Buchanan  Read.  118 

THE  TENNESSEE  EXELE'S  SONG "  121 

THE  SOUTHERN  WIFE Walker  Meriwether  Bell.  122 

WILLIE 124 

WOMAN'S  E'E Gen.  S.  B.  Buckner.  126 

THE  KENTUCKY  PARTISAN Paul  H.  Hayne.  127 


Vlii  CONTENTS. 

THE  TOAST  OF  MORGAN'S  MEN Captain  Thorpe.  130 

THE  EMPTY  SLEEVE Dr.  G.  W.  Bagby.  130 

ENGLAND'S  NEUTRALITY John  R.  Thompson.  133 

SCENES Paul  H.  Hayne.  139 

SPRING Henry  Timrod.  140 

A  PRAYER A  Southern  Mother.  143 

LIBERA  Nos,  O  DOMI-NE James  Barron  Hope.  144 

GATHERING  SONG Annie  Chambers  Ketchum.  147 

To  A  MOCKING-BIRD E.  F.  W.  148 

THE  TROOPER  TO  HIS  STEED Susan  Archer  Talley.  150 

THE  LITTLE  WHITE  GLOVE Paul  H.  Hayne.  154 

ALL'S  WELL Margaret  J.  Preston.  156 

GETTYSBURG Dr.  Edward  L.  Warner.  158 

THE  BROKEN  SWORD Walker  Merriwether  Bell.  159 

THE  MARCH  or  THE  SPOILER Anon.  161 

THE  CAMEO  BRACELET James  R.  Randall.  162 

OUB  SHIP* Henry  L.  Flash.  163 

DROWNED,  DROWNED*  Catherine  A..  Warfield.  165 

THE  TRIPLE  BARRED  BANNER Anon.  166 

BITTER  ALOES X.  J.  Requier.  167 

SEMMES'  SWORD f    Anon.  169 

THE  BROKEN  MUG John  Esten  Cooke.  171 

MINDING  THE  GAP Mollie  E.  Moore.  176 

FAREWELL  TO  GALVESTON Col.  A.  M.  Hobby.  179 

ALL  QUIET  ALONG  THE  POTOMAC  TO-NIGHT.  .  .Lamar  Fontaine.  183 

MY  MARYLAND James  R.  Randall.  185 

THE  SERGEANT'S  STORY* Charles  Dinritry.  188 

WOVEN  FANCIES* Fanny  Downing.  191 

AN  EVENING  VISIT  TO  THE  LINES  AROUND 

PETERSBURG Samuel  M.  Davies.  193 

THE  BATTLE  RAINBOW         '.  .John  R.  Thompson.  196 

RODES'  BRIGADE  CHARGE  AT  SEVEN  PINES W.  P.  C.  198 

CARMEN  TRIUMPHALE Henry  Timrod.  199 

FROM  THE  RAPIDAN Anon.  201 

SONNET  (the  South) Anon.  202 

LINES  (to  General  N.  B.  Forrest)* Rosalie  Miller.  203 

THE  DEVIL'S  DELIGHT John  K.  Thompson.  205 

THE  BRAVE  AT  HOME Anon.  208 

CLOUDS  IN  THE  WEST A.  J.  Requier.  209 

SONG  OF  THE  FIRST  VIRGINIA  CAVALRY Anon.  211 

STUART Paul  H.  Hayne.  213 

A  WORD  WITH  THE  WEST John  R.  Thompson.  216 

THE  GOOD  OLD  CAUSE John  D.  Phelan.  219 

THE  SOLDIER'S  PRAYER Margaret  J.  Preston.  221 

THE  CHAPLAIN'S  PRAYER Ibid.  222 

GOD  SAVE  THE  SOUTHERN  LAND S.  Francis  Cameron.  223 

THE  SNOW* Walker  Meriwether  Bell.  225 

IN  THE  LAND  WHERE  WE  WERE  DREAMING Dan  B.  Lucas.  226 

O  TEMPORA,  0  MORES Dr.  J.  Dickson  Bruns.  229 

DIXIE Fanny  Downing.  234 

DIXIE Gen.  Albert  Pike.  232 

A  BATTLE  CALL  TO  KENTUCKY Walker  Meriwether  Bell.  236 

THE  OLD  RIFLEMAN .  .Dr.  Frank  O.  Ticknor.  237 


CONTENTS.  IX 

THE  RIFLEMAN'S  FANCY  SHOT Anon.  239 

OUR  FAILURE Catherine  A.  "Wai-field.  240 

SONG  OF  THE  SOUTH Dan.  B.  Lucas.  243 

MANASSAS Catherine  A.  Warfield.  245 

SCENE  IN  A  COUNTRY  HOSPITAL Paul  H.  Hayne.  246 

THE  SOUTHERN  PATRIOT'S  LAMENT Written  in  Ft.  Warren.  248 

A  CRY  TO  ASMS Henry  Timrod.  250 

THE  SWORD  OF  EGBERT  LEE Eev.  Abram  J.  Eyan.  252 

A  HEALTH General  S.  B.  Buckner .  254 

THE  WAR  CHRISTIAN'S  THANKSGIVING S.  Teackle  Wallis.  255 

A  PRAYER  FOR  PEACE Ibid.  257 

CANNON  SONG Anon.  260 

Music  IN  CAMP   .John  R.  Thompson.  261 

THE  TREES  OF  THE  SOUTH Rev.  Abram  J.  Ryan.  264 

BEYOND  THE  POTOMAC Paul  H.  Hayne.  265 

PROMISE  OF  SPRING Anon.  267 

THE  BAREFOOTED  BOYS "  269 

"  WE  COME  1  WE  COME  !" Millie  Mayfield.  270 

"  VENGEANCE  is  MINE  1" Walker  Meriwether  Bell.  272 

BEATJREGARD'S  APPEAL Paul  H.  Hayne.  273 

MELT  THE  BELLS F.  O.  Eockett.  275 

WHAT  THE  VILLAGE  BELL  SAID John  C.  McLemore.  276 

THE  COTTON  BOLL Henry  Timrod.  278 

AT  FORT  PILLOW James  E.  Eandall.  284 

THE  UNFOBGOTTEN W.  Winston  Fontaine.  287 

BUTLER'S  PROCLAMATION Paul  H.  Hayne.  288 

LETTER Anon.  290 

EEBELS,  'TIS  A  HOLY  NAME Eev.  M.  Garesche.  293 

YES,  CALL  us  EEBELS Gen.  Albert  Pike.  294 

GOD  SAVE  THE  SOUTH George  H.  Miles.  296 

VIRGINIA  (In  Memoriam) Anon.  298, 

VIRGINIA.  (A  Sonnet) Margaret  J.  Preston.  303 

SURRENDER  OF  THE  A.  N.  Va Florence  Anderson.  304 

VIRGINIA  CAPTA Margaret  J.  Preston.  306 

THE  EAISING  OF  THE  BRONZE  STATUE Innis  Randolph.  308 

VIRGINIA  Furr John  E.  Thompson.  309 

Sic  SEMPER   TYJJAKNIS Fanny  Downing.  311 

TRIBUTE  TO  A  HEEO  W.  W.  Mr*m>.  314 

THE  OLD  CRIB Mary  E.  Tucker.  31« 

VICKSBURG Paul  H.  Hayne.  318 

CHARLESTON Henry  Timrod.  320 

CHARLESTON Paul  H.   Hayne.  322 

1776—1861  C Washington.  324  \/ 

HYMN  TO  THE  DAWN A.  J.  Requier.  325 

CUB  CITY  BY  THE  SEA   W.  Gilmore  Simms.  327 

THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  CHUBCH Ibid.  332 

CAROLINA Anna  Peyre  Dinnies.  325 

SAVANNAH  FALLEN Alethea  S.  Burroughs.  337 

SHERMANIZED L.  Virginia  French.  339 

SONG  OF  THE  SNOW Margaret  J.  Preston .  342 

WATCHING Annie  E.  Ketchum.  344 

THE  SOLDIEB  BOY Hon.  W.  D:  Porter.  346 


X  CONTENTS. 

LEE  TO  THE  REAR John  R.  Thompson.  347 

ROBEBT  E.  LEE Mary  Bayard  Clark.  351  */ 

HUSH  ! Walker  Meriwether  Bell.  352 

A  HEKO'S  DAUGHTEE Margaret  J.  Preston.  354 

THE  SOUTHERN  CBOSS E.  Key  Blount.  356 

CUE  SOUTHEEN  WOMEN Mrs.  C.  A.  Ball.  358 

THE  MISSOUEI  CAPTAIN Mary  E.  Bryan.  360 

THE  FRONT A.  R.  Watson.  366 

ETHNOGENESIS Henry  Timrod.  368 

JEFFERSON  DAVIS James  L.  Boweu.  372  ^ 

VM    VICTIS Anon.  375 

To  THE  FRIENDS  or  OLD  DAYS M.  C.  379 

JEFFERSON  DAVIS Walker  Meriwether  Bell.  381   -^ 

REGULUS Margaret  J.  Preston.  382 

PEOMETHEUS  VINCTUS Fanny  Downing.  383 

PRESIDENT  DAVIS Jane  T.  Cross.  386 

STAND  FIBM* Julia  C.  Mintziug.  389 

PAGE  BROOK Dr.  F.  O.  Ticknor.  391 

WHEN  THE  WAE  is  OVEE Margaret  J.  Preston.  392 

CHRISTMAS  Henry  Timrod.  395 

HOLLY  AND  CYPRESS Fanny  Downing.  398 

STORM  AND  CALM Henry  Timrod.  401 

WELCOME  HOME Walker  Meriwether  Bell.  402 

THE  WAE  GOES  ON Anon.  404 

THE  JACKET  OP  GREY C.  A.  Ball.  407 

DOFFING  THE  GEEY Lieutenant  Falligant.  409 

CUTTING  OFF  THE  BUTTONS S.  A.  Brock.  410 

THE  CONFEDERATE  BILL Major  S.  A.  Jonas.  413 

ASHES  OF  GLORY A.  J.  Requier.  414 

THE  CONFEDERATE  FLAG H.  L.  Flash.  416 

THE  BLESSED  HAND H.  Teackle  Wallis.  4J.7 

THE  CONFEDERATE  FLAG Anon.  419 

THE  CONQUERED  BANNER Rev.  A.    J.  Ryan.  421 

KEEP  IT  STILL Sir  Henry  do  Hoghton.  423 

THE  LOST  CAUSE Dr.  Thomas  Dunn  English.  424 

POOR  TOM Dr.  F.  O.  Ticknor.  426 

THE  MAGTC  LAMP Miss  M.  L.  Meany.  427 

THE  CONSTITUTION PI.  Ballard.  433 

THE  SOUTHERN  LYRE Paul  H.  Hayne.  434 

A.  J.  Requier.  442 


MEMORIAL  POEMS. 

PRIZE  POEM  (TWILIGHT  AT  HOLLYWOOD) Jnnis  Randolph.  444 

JACKSON,  THE  ALEXANDRIA  MAETYE Dr.  W.  H.  HoJcombe.  447 

OUE  DEAD Col.  A.  M.  Hobby.  448 

CHARLES  B.  DEEUX James  R.  Randall.  451 

ZOLLICOFFEE Harry  L.  Flash.  453 

SLAIN  IN  BATTLE Margaret  J.  Preston.  454 


CONTENTS.  XJ 

IJIEUTENANT  HENRY  LEWIS A  Lady.  455 

THE  SOLDIER'S  GRAVE Pearl.  457 

THE  UNKNOWN  DEAD Hemy  Timrod.  458 

GENERAL  ALBERT  SIDNEY  JOHNSTON James  L.  Bowen.  451* 

BURIAL  OF  ALBERT  SIDNEY  JOHNSTON* Mollie  E.  Moore.  465 

MUMFORD Ina  M.  Porter.  468 

MUMFORD'S  GRAVE By  his  Widow.  469- 

ANNIE  CARTER  LEE Mary  B.  Clarke.  470 

A  DREAM  VISIT* Loula  W.  Rogers.  472 

THE  BURIAL  OF  CAPT.  O.  JENNINGS  WISE Accomac.  476 

COL.  B.  F.  TERRY J.  R.  Barrick.  477 

ASHBY John  R.   Thompson.  479 

DIRGE  FOR  ASHBY Margaret  J.  Preston.  480 

THE  GRAVE  OF  ASHBY By  Old  Fogy.  482 

THE  BURIAL  OF  LATANE John  R.  Thompson.  483 

MEMORIA  SACRUM James  Barren  Hope.  485 

IN  MEMOEIAM,  D.  J.  R Rev.  A.  J.  Ryan.  489 

OUR  NOBLE  DEAD John  E.   Hatcher.  490 

READING  THE  LIST Anon.  492 

STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  WAY A  CLOU.  493  / 

STONEWALL  JACKSON Paul  H.  Hayne.  495 

STONEWALL  JACKSON Harry  L.  Flash.  499  \ 

JACKSON  (A  sonnet) Margaret  J.  Preston.  501 

MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  STONEWALL 

JACKSON By  the  Exile.  501 

STONEWALL  JACKSON Anon.  503 

LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  STONEWALL  JACKSON "  504 

STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  PALL Virginia  Madison.  507 

THE  BATTLE-EVE   , Susan  Archer  Tally.  510 

A  DIRGE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LIEUT. -GEN. 

JACKSON Catherine  A.  "Warfield.  511 

His  LAST  WORDS Anon.  514 

OVER  THE  RIVER E.  de  Mondion.  515 

STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  GRAVE Margaret  J.  Preston.  516 

THE  LONE  SENTRY James  R.  Randall.  520 

STONEWALL  JACKSON The  Kilkenny  Man.  522 

WHO  SHALL  BE  OUR  STANDARD  BEARER Charles  Dimitry.  525 

THE  STONEWALL  CEMETERY Mary  B.  Clarke.  529 

MISERERE Ina  M.  Porter.  531 

MISSING Anon.  532 

DEAD Anon.  533 

AN  UNKNOWN  HERO W.  Gordon  McCabe.  536 

LEONIDAS  POLK Fanny  Downing.  538 

POLK Harry  L.  Flash.  54C 

THE  CONFEDERATE  DEAD By  Latienne.  54C 

GEN.  JOHN  B.  FLOYD By  Eulalie.  543 

CCL.  W.  S.  HAWKINS 544 

JOHN  PELHAM James  R.   Randall.  546 

THE  BAND  IN  THE  PINES John  Esten  Cooke.  548 

TEE  UNRETURNTNG Anon.  548 

STUART W.  Winston  Fontaine.  55C 

GEN.  J.  E.  B.  STUART John  R.  Thompson.  552 

THE  SOLDIER  WHO  DIED  TO-DAY.  . ,  Anon.  555 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

JOHN  PEGKAM W.  Gordon  McCabe.  557 

JAMES  BUBWELL* His  Mother.  559 

THE  LETTEB  TO  THE  DEAD Dr.  Thomas  Dunn  English.  562 

GEOEGE  WYTHE  RANDOLPH John  K.  Thompson.  565 

OUB  MABTYBS .Paul  H.  Hayue.  568 

GLKBUBKE M.  A.  Jennings.  570 

CAPTAIN  BEALL Col.  Hawkins.  572 

SONNET Paul  H.  Hayne.  573 

SMITH  CALVEET S.  A.  Brock.  974 

THE  DYING  SOLDIEB Matilda  Edwards.  577 

THE  CONFEDEBATE  DEAD Mary  Sheney.  580 

PATBIOT  HEBOES  IN  THE  SIGHT  or  GOD Anon.  584 

HENBY  TIMBOD , Sallie  A.  Brock.  586 

ODE Henry  Timrod.  588 

CEDAEVILLE Juliette  T.  Burton.  589 

Gov.  HENBY  WATKINS  ALLEN Col.  A.  M.  Hobby.  592 

LITTLE  GIFFEN Dr.  F.  O.  Ticknor.  597 

LINES  TO  GEN.  S.   B.  BUCKNEE Kosarita.  699 

REPLY  TO  KOSAEITA S.  B.  Buckner.  600 

SOMEBODY'S  DABLING Miss  Maria  La  Coste.  601 

DEATH  OB  VICTOBI: Virginia  L.  French.  603 

A  RF.BEL  THAT  DIED Amanda  L.  Patton.  607 

McKENDBEE J.  E.  BeiTick.  610 

THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD Col.  Theodore  O'Hara.  612 

BEING  FLOWEBS J.  K.  Barrick.  616 

GEN.  STEELING  PEICE M.  P.  S.  617 

MAJOR  T.  M.  N Anon.  618 

GEN.  OTHO  F.  STEAHL By  F.  620 

THE  MANY  NAMELESS Mary  Mullaly.  621 

VIRGINIA'S  DEAD 623 

Too  YOUNG  TO  DIE John  B.  Smith.  626 

A  PRAYER  FOR  PEACE S.  Y.  Levy.  648 

BURY  ME  ON  THE  FIELD,  BOYS Mary  S.  Grayson.  630 

MAXCY  GREGG  C.  G.  P.  631 

THE  ASHBYS Dan.  B.  Lucas.  635 

THE  BURIAL  OF  BRIG.-GEN.  M.  JENKINS C.  G.  P.  637 

DECORATING  THE  GRAVES  OF  OUR  DEAD Leola.  639 

THE  TOMB  OF  ALBERT  SIDNEY  JOHNSTON  (Epitaph) 641 

IN  MEMORIAM— D.  J.  R Moina.  643 

THE  LAND  OF  MEMORIES A.  J.  Ryan.  647 


OF  THE 

IWIVEBSITY 


THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


BY  MOINA.       (BEV.    FATHER  ABBAM  J.  BTAN,    OF  TENNESSEE.) 


sinks  the  soldier  brave 
Dead  at  the  feet  of  wrong, 
The  poet  sings  —  and  guards  his  grave 
With  sentinels  of  song. 

"  Go  songs,"  —  he  gives  command  — 

Keep  faithful  watch  and  true  ; 
The  living  and  dead  of  the  Conquered  Land 

Have  now  no  guards  save  you. 

"  And  ballads  !  mark  ye  well, 

Thrice  holy  is  your  trust  ; 
Go  out  to  the  fields  where  warriors  fell, 

And  sentinel  their  dust" 

And  the  songs  in  stately  rhyme, 

With  softly  sounding  tread 
March  forth  —  to  watch  till  the  end  of  timey 

Beside  the  silent  dead. 


14  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

And  when  the  foeman's  host 

And  hate  have  passed  away, 
Our  guard  of  songs  shall  keep  their  post 

Around  our  soldiers'  clay. 

A  thousand  dawns  may  glow. 

A  thousand  days  may  wane, 
The  deathless  songs  where  the  dead  lie  lowr 

True  to  the  last  remain. 

Yea,  true !     They  will  not  yield 

To  tyrants  or  to  time. 
At  every  grave,  and  on  every  field 

Where  men  died  deaths  sublime, 

Lone  vigils  they  will  keep, 

Obedient  to  their  bard, 
And  they  will  watch  when  we  shall  sleep — 

Our  last  and  only  guard. 

What  though  our  victors  say 

No  column  shall  be  built 
Above  the  graves  where  the  men  in  grey 

Lie  mouldering  in  their  guilt  ? 

Ah !  let  the  tyrant  curse 

The  dead  he  tramples  down ! 
Our  strong,  brave  songs,  in  their  sweet,  sad  verse^ 

Fear  not  the  tyrant's  frown. 

What  though  no  sculptured  shaft 

Commemorate  our  brave  ?  | 

What  though  no  monument  epitaph  ed 

Be  built  above  their  grave  ? 


THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH.  15 

When  marble  wears  away, 

And  roonuments  are  dust, 
The  songs  that  guard  our  soldiers'  clay 

Will  still  fulfill  their  trust 

YOKE  FREEMAN'S  JOUENAL. 


BRAVE  DEEDS— BKAVE  FRUITS. 

BY  W.    OILMOBE   SIMMS,    OF  SOUTH   CAROLINA. 

THE  record  should  be  made  of  each  brave  deed 
That  brings  us  Pride  and  Freedom  as  its  fruits, 
So  that  while  tending  on  the  vigorous  shoots, 
Our  children  may  perpetuate  the  seed  ; 
And,  naught  forgetting  of  the  glorious  Past, 
Lay  good  foundations  in  the  Future's  womb, 
So  when  the  hardy  sire  succumbs  at  last, 
The  emulous  son  may  still  defend  his  tomb. 
Thus  chronicled  the  mighty  deed  begets 
Still  mightier  ;  and  the  column,  soaring  high, 
Speaks  his  tones  that  the  brave  son  ne'er  forgets  ! 
He,  too,  will  conquer — will  not  fear  to  die  ! 
Heading  the  fight,  will  man  the  breach  and  prove 
His  valor  not  unworthy  of  his  love. 
SOUTHERN  OPINION. 


THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


jgtito  f  mm. 

IN    LAUDATION    OF    THE    DEEDS,    VALOE,    SUFFERINGS   AND    SACRI 
FICES    OF    THE    CONFEDERATE    SOLDIERS. 

BY  PAUL  H.    HAYNE,    OF  SOUTH   CAROLINA. 

The  Confederates  in  the  field— Illustration — Ihe  first  battle  of  Manas- 
ses — Confederates    in  the    bivouac — Confederates    in    the    hospital — 
Conclusion. 

WITH  bayonets  slanted  in  the  glittering  light,     . 

With  solemn  roll  of  drums,  j. 

With  starlit  banners  rustling  wings  of  might, 

The  knightly  concourse  comes ! 
The  flower  and  fruit  of  all  the  tropic  lands 
The  unsheathed  brightness  of  their  stainless  brands 

Blazing  in  courtly  hands — 
One  glorious  soul  within  those  human  eyes — 
One  aim,  one  hope,  one  impulse  from  the  skies — 

While  silent,  awed  and  dumb, 
A  nation  waits  the  end  in  dread  surmise, 

They  come  1  they  come  ! 

The  summer  flaunts  her  vivid  leaves  above 

The  unwonted  scene — 
The  summer  heavens  embrace  with  smiles  of  love 

The  hill-slopes  green ; 
Far  in  the  uppermost  realms  of  silent  air 
Peace  sits  enthroned  and  happy,  but  on  earth 
The  cymbals  clash,  and  the  shrill  trumpets  blare, 
And  Death,  like  some  grim  mower  on  the  plain 

Topped  by  the  ripe  grain, 
Whets  his  keen  scythe  and  shakes  it  fearfully. 


OF 

ITNIVEKSITY 


THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH.  17 

Our  serried  lines  march  sternly  to  the  front, 
"Where,  decked  as  if  they  rose  to  celebrate 

A  joyous  festal  morn, 
In  glistening  pomp  and  splendid  blazonry, 

Slow-moving  as  in  scorn 

Of  those  weak  bands  that  guard  the  pass  below, 
Come,  gorgeous,  flushed  and  proud,  the  cohorts  of  the 
foe! 

They  wheel !  deploy,  are  stationed — down  the  cleft 
Of  the  long  gorge  their  signals  thunders  run ! 

A  sullen  answer  echoes  from  our  left, 
And  'the  great  fight's  begun  ! 

0  !  who  will  picture  the  immortal  fray  ? 
Our  Southern  host  that  day 

Breasted  the  onset  of  the  invading  sea 

"With  wills  of  adamant ;  but  stern- weighted  strength, 

Like  waves  of  some  infernal  alchemy 

Hardened,  transformed  to  solid  metal,  burning 

At  white  heat  as  they  struck,  and  aye  returning 
Hotter,  and  more  resistless  than  before, 

(All  flecked  atop  with  foam  of  human  gore,) 

Pierced  here  and  there  our  crumbling  ranks  at  length, 
"Which  as  a  mountain  shore, 

Eock-ribbed  and  iron-founded,  still  had  stood 
And  outward  hurled 

In  bloody  sprayings,  that  tremendous  flood 

Which  with  wild  charge  and  furious  brunt  to  brunt, 

Had  dashed  against  us  like  a  fiery  world  ! 

Unceasing  still  poured  on  the  fearful  tide, 
And  plumed  victory  ever  seemed  to  ride 
On  the  red  billows  of  the  northland  war  I 


18  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Our  glory  and  pride 
Had  fallen — fallen  in  the  terrible  van — 
Like  wine  the  life-streams  ran ; 
"  Back !  back  !"  cried  one,  (it  was  the  voice  of  Bee., 

Lifted  in  wrath  and  bitter  agony,) 
"  We're  driven  backward !"  unto  whom  there  came 
An  answer,  like  the  rush  of  steady  flame 
'Twixt  ribs  of  iron,  "  We  will  give  them  yet 

The  bayonet ! 

The  sharp  edge  of  the  Southern  bayonet  1" 
At  which  the  other's  face  flushed  up,  and  caught 
Light  like  a  warrior-angel's,  and  he  sprang 
To  the  front  rank,  while,  swift  as  passionate  thought, 
Leaped  forth  his  sword,  and  this  high  summons  rang: 

"  See !  see  I  where  calm  and  grand 
Like  a  stonewall  the  braves  of  Jackson  stand ! 
Forward !"  and  on  he  rushed  with  quivering  breath, 

On  to  his  Spartan  death ! 

Unceasing  still  poured  down  the  fearful  tide, 
And  plumed  victory  ever  seemed  to  ride 
O'er  the  red  billows  of  the  northland  war ! 

When  faint  and  far, 

Far  on  our  left,  there  rose  a  sound  that  thrilled 
All  souls,  and  even  the  battle's  thunderous  pulse, 
(Or  so  we  deemed,)  for  a  briefest  space  was  stilled : 
A  sound,  low-hissing  as  a  meteor  star, 
But  gathering  depth  of  volume,  till  it  burst 

In  one  great  flame-like  cheer, 
That  seemed  to  rend  and  lift  the  cloud  accurst, 

The  poison-clinging  cloud 

That  wrapped  us  like  a  shroud, 
While  wounded  men  leaped  on  their  feet  to  hear, 


THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

And  dying  men  upraised  their  eyes  to  see 
How  on  the  conflict's  lowering  canopy, 
Dawned  the  first  rainbow  hues  of  victory  ! 

Have  you  watched  the  condor  leap 

From  his  .proud  Andean  rock, 
And  with  hurtling  pinions  sweep 

On  the  valley -pasturing  flock  ? 
Have  you  watched  an  Eygre  vast 

On  the  rude  September  blast, 
'Roll  adown  with  curved  crest 

O'er  the  low  sands  of  the  West  ? 
O  !  thus  and  thus  they  came, 

(Four  thousand  men  and  more,) 
Hearts,  faces,  all  aflame, 
And  the  grandeur  of  their  wrath 
Whirled  the  tyrant  from  their  path, 
As  the  frightened  rack  is  driven, 
By  the  unleashed  winds  of  heaven ; 
Then,  maddened,  tossed  about 
In  a  reckless,  hopeless  rout, 
The  Northern  army  fled 
O'er  their  dying  and  their  dead ; 
And  the  Southern  steel  flashed  out, 
And  their  vengeful  points  were  red 
With  the  hot  heart's  tide  that  flow'd 
Where  they  sabred  as  they  rode  1 
And  the  news  sped  on  apace, 
'(Where  the  rulers  in  their  place 
-Sat  jubilant,  one  and  all,) 
Till  a  shadow  seemed  to  fall 
Round  their  joy ance  like  a  pall, 
And  the  inmost  Senate  hall 


20  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Pealed  an  echo  of  disgrace ! 
At  the  set  of  July's  sun 
They  stood  quivering  and  undone 
For  the  eagle  standards  waned,  and  the  Southern  "  stars 7r 
had  won ! 

Thus  loomed  serene  and  large 

Upon  that  desperate  contest's  lurid  marge 
Our  orb  of  destiny  :  millions  of  hearts 

Throb  with  bold  exultation, 

And  there  starts 

From  mountain  fastness  and  from  waving  plain, 
From  wooded  swamp  and  mist-encircled  main — 

From  hamlet,  city,  field, 

And  the  rich  midland  weald, 
The  spirit  of  the  antique  Hero — Time  ! 

0  !  'twas  a  sight  sublime 
To  watch  the  upheaval  of  the  popular  soul — 
The  stormy  gathering,  the  majestic  roll 
Upward  of  its  wild  forces,  by  the  awe 
Of  right  and  justice  steadied  into  law  ! 
Faith  lent  our  cause  its  heavenly  consecration, 

Hope  its  omnipotent  might ! 
And  Fame  stood  ready,  with  her  flowers  of  light, 
To  crown  alike  the  living  and  the  dead, 
"While  in  the  broadening  firmament  o'erhead 
"We  seemed  to  read  the  fiat  of  our  fate, 

"Ye  are  baptized — a  nation! 

Amongst  the  freest,  free — amongst  the  mightiest,  great  !'7 
An  ominous  hush  1  and  then  the  scattered  clouds 

In  the  dark  northern  heaven, 
(Clouds  of  a  deadliest  strife,) 

Urged  by  the  poison  wind 


THE   SOUTHERN   A®&Bs&£Hr"- '  21 


Of  crime  and  rapine,  sullenly  combined, 
Charged  with  the  bolts  of  ruin ! 

What  were  shrouds 

Crimsoned  with  gore — the  widowed  spirit  riven — 
The  desecration  of  God's  gift  of  life, 
To  that  one  thought,  (three  fiendish  strands  uniting 

Hot  from  a  hellish  loom,) 
•"  Conquest !"     "  Eevenge  !"     "  Supremacy  ?" 

The  blighting 

'Of  untold  promises,  the  grief,  the  gloom, 
The  desolate  madness,  and  the  anguish  blind, 

And  spreading  on  and  on 
From  murdered  sire  to  subjugated  son, 
Were  less  than  nothing  to  the  arrogant  pride 
Which  treaties,  compacts,  honor,  law  defied, 
And  aimed  above  the  wrecks  of  temple  and  tower 
To  rear  the  symbols  of  its  merciless  power ! 

Four  deadly  years  we  fought, 
Kinged  by  a  girdle  of  unfaltering  fire, 
That  coiled  and  hissed  in  lessening  circles  nigher. 

Blood  dyed  the  Southern  wave  : 
From  ocean  border  to  calm  inland  river, 
There  was  no  pause,  no  peace,  no  respite  ever. 

Blood  of  our  bravest  brave 
Drenched  in  a  scarlet  rain  the  western  lea, 
Swelled  the  hoarse  waters  of  the  Tennessee, 
Incarnadined  the  gulfs,  the  lakes,  the  rills, 
And,  from  a  hundred  hills, 
Steamed  in  a  mist  of  slaughter  to  the  skies, 
Shutting  all  hope  of  heaven  from  mortal  eyes. 
The  Beaufort  blooms  were  withered  on  the  stem , 

Their  fair  gulf  city  in  a  single  night 


22  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH, 

Lost  her  imperial  diadem  ; 
And  whereso'er  men's  troubled  vision  sought, 
They  viewed  MIGHT  towering  o'er  the  humbled  crest  of 
EIGHT  ! 

But  for  a  time,  but  for  a  time,  0,  God  ! 
The  innate  forces  of  our  knightly  blood 
Eallied,  and  by  the  mount,  the  fen,  the  flood, 

Upraised  the  tottering  standards  of  our  race. 
0,  grand  Virginia !  though  thy  glittering  glaive 
Lies  sullied,  shattered  in  a  ruthless  grave 

How  flashed  it  once ! 

They  dug  their  trenches  deep, 

(The  implacable  foe,)  they  ranged  their  lines  of  wrath  ; 
But  watchful  ever  on  the  imminent  path, 

Thy  steel-clad  genius  stood  ; 

North,  South,  East,  West,  they  strove  to   pierce 
shield ; 

Thou  would 'st  not  yield! 

Until,  unconquered.  yea,  unconquered  still — 
NATURE'S  weakened  forces  answered  not  thy  WILL, 
And  gored  with  wound  on  wound, 
Thy  fainting  limbs  and  forehead  sought  the  ground  ;; 
And  with  thee,  the  young  nation  fell,  a  pall 
Solemn  and  rayless,  covering  one  and  all ! 

God's  ways  are  marvellous  ;  here  we  stand  to-day 
Discrowned,  and  shorn  in  wildest  disarray, 
The  mock  of  earth !  yet  never  shone  the  sun 
On  sterner  deeds,  or  nobler  victories  won. 
Not  in  the  field  alone ;  ah,  come  with  me 
To  the  dim  bivouac  by  the  winter's  sea ; 
Mark  the  fair  sons  of  courtly  mothers  crouck 


THE  PRIZE  POEM.  23 

Over  the  fires ;  but  gallant  still  and  gay 
As  on  some  bright  parade ;  or  mark  the  couch 

In  reeking  hospitals,  whereon  is  laid 
The  latest  scion  of  a  line  perchance 
Whose  veins  were  royal ;  close  your  blurred  romance 
Blurred  by  the  dropping  of  a  maudlin  tear, 
And  watch  the  manhood  here ; 

That  firm  but  delicate  countenance, 
Distorted  sometimes  by  an  awful  pang 
Borne  in  meek  patience.     When  the  trumpets  rang 
"  To  horse !"  but  y ester  morn,  that  ardent  boy 
Sprang  to  his  charger,  thrilled  with  hope  and  joy 
To  the  very  finger  tips ;  and  now  he  lies, 
The  shadow  deepening  in  those  falcon  eyes, 

But  calm  and  undismay'd, 
As  if  the  death  that  chills  him  brow  and  breast, 
Were  some  fond  bride,  who  whispered,  "Let  us  rest!" 

Enough !  'tis  over !  the  last  gleam  of  hope 
Hath  melted  from  our  mournful  horoscope — 

Of  all,  of  all  bereft ; 

Only  to  us  are  left 

Our  buried  heroes  and  their  matchless  deeds ; 
These  cannot  pass ;  they  hold  the  vital  seeds 
Which  in  some  far,  untracked,  unvisioned  hour, 
May  burst  to  vivid  bud  and  glorious  flower. 

Meanwhile,  upon  the  nation's  broken  heart 
Her  martyrs  sleep.     0,  dearer  far  to  her, 
Than  if  each  son  a  wreathed  conqueror, 

Eode  in  triumphant  state 

The  loftiest  crest  of  fate : 
O,  dearer  far,  because  outcast  and  low, 
She  yearns  above  them  in  her  awful  woe. 


24  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

One  spring  its  tender  blooms 

Hath  lavished  richly  by  those  hallowed  tombs ; 

One  summer  its  imperial  largess  spread 

Along  our  heroes'  bed ; 
One  autumn  wailing  with  funereal  blast, 
The  withered  leaves  and  pallid  dust  amassed 
All  round  about  them,  till  bleak  winter  now 
Hangs  hoar-frost  on  the  grasses,  and  the  bough 

In  dreary  woodlands  seems  to  thrill  and  start, 
Thrill  to  the  anguish  of  the  wind  that  raves 
Across  those  lonely,  desolated  graves  ! 

Can  we  forget  ?     0  Christ,  can  we  forget 

What  hath  been  ?     Though  a  thousand  suns  should  set 

And  rise  on  opulent  towns, 
And  the  fair  flocks  along  uncounted  downs, 
And  fields  of  billowy  harvest,  and  the  boom 
Of  mammoth  mill  wheels  turning  spire  and  loom, 

There  still  must  be 

The  torturing  memory  of  a  crime  that  tore 
Our  heart-strings,  and  the  ghost  of  liberty 
Shall  dim  our  very  noondays  evermore  ! 

Can  we  forget  ? 

Not  till  the  monstrous  debt 
Be  amply  paid ;  thy  credit  side  of  wrong 

Looms  up  with  large  figures  and  to-day  we  know, 
Despot,  that  thou  art  strong ; 

But  who  shall  gauge  the  morrow  ?     God  makes 

firm 
The  feeble  knees,  exalts  the  heads  that  bow 

In  dust  and  ashes.     Tyranny  hath  its  term, 
Sin  its  avenger ;  and  there  yet  may  rise 


THE   PEIZE   POEM.  25 

From  what  are  now  but  possibilities 
Shut  in  the  heart  of  dim  futurities 
Nigh  to  the  throne  of  God,  thy  judgment  day  ! 
When  all  the  innocent  blood  so  madly  shed 
Shall  pour  a  torrent  on  thy  cowering  head ; 
When  the  bright  Southern  Cross, 
Emerging  from  the  storms  of  grief  and  loss, 
.Shall  win  the  ascendant,  and  each  martyr  name 
In  her  lost  cause  a  separate  star  shall  flame 

Round  that  grand  constellation 
Which  speaks  in  eloquence  of  light  to  all  I 

Light  that  concentrates  its  ineffable  glory 
Into  dread  language,  such  as  that  which  rolled 
Across  the  awed  Patmean  waste  of  old, 
When  from  the  highest  heaven  the  archangel's  lips 
Opened,  and  through  the  thunder  and  eclipse 

Of  suns  and  worlds,  the  future's  wondrous  story 
Burst  on  the  seer  in  vast  Apocalypse  : 

"  0,  hearken  unto  this, 

Ye  prostrate  peoples,  though  the  righteous  fall, 
And  heirs  of  promise  lie  in  gory  dust, 
Uplift  your  blinded  eyes,  your  faltering  trust ; 

In  heaven's  good  time, 

That  which  ye  deemed  was  lost  is  surely  found. 
Spring-blooms  of  freedom  sprout  from  barren  ground  j 
And  though  full  fathom  deep  on  turbulent  sea, 
Or  on  the  mountain  lea, 
Ye  lay  what  seems  a  corse,  a  buried  nation, 

In  God's  good  time 
The  mighty  Lazarus  stirs,  he  snaps  the  bands 

And  springs  sublime, 
Heaven's  freshening  air 
2 


26  THE    SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Thrilling  the  very  rootlets  of  his  hair 
With  a  new  sense  of  strength  and  life  and  power ; 
Born  in  one  magical  hour, 
Boused  "by  God's  breath  of  Palingenesis  I" 
SOUTHEEN  OPINION. 


PASCAGOULA,  in  thy  water, 

Girlish  feet  were  wont  to  lave, 

And  the  dark-eyed  Indian  daughter 

Dipped  her  tresses  in  the  wave, 

Drinking  the  delicious  pleasure  which  thine  icy  bosom 
gave; 

In  the  moonlight  Pascagoula 

Lifts  its  waves  of  silver  sheen, 

Never  yet  a  spot  was  cooler 

Than  those  verdant  banks,  I  ween, 
And  its  name  of  Indian  music  hath  in  many  a  legend 

been. 

Years  ago  a  nation  founded 
On  this  bay  a  fortress  high, 
While  these  Southern  woods  resounded 
To  the  deer  that  flitted  by, 
And  the  startling  voice  of  hunters  swelling  loud  the  red 

men's  cry. 

Their  quick  footsteps,  light,  elastic, 
Scarcely  stirred  the  gorgeous  plume, 


PASCAGOULA.  27 

Ye  might  see  those  bands  fantastic 
Which  the  watch-fires  did  illume, 

Sitting  down  around  the  camp-light  in  their  picturesque- 
costume. 

They  had  long  been  chased  and  taunted, 

And  their  women  drank  the  woe  ; 

Their  green  hunting  grounds  were  haunted, 

Haunted  b  j  a  reckless  foe  — 

And  with  bleeding  hearts  they  wandered  far  from  their 
bright  river's  flow. 

Bat  at  last  the  Indian  mother, 

On  sweet  Pascagoula's  strand, 

Found  her  rest,  and  learned  to  smother 

Memories  of  the  cruel  band, 

Though  her  high-toned  heart  was  bursting  —  bursting; 
for  her  native  land. 

Scarcely  had  the  forest  wooed  them 

To  a  huntsman's  joys  once  more, 

When  the  dreaded  foe  pursued  them, 

Wilder,  fiercer  than  before, 

Scattering  far  their  deadly  arrows,   valley,   field   and 
mountain  o'er. 

In  the  fort  Biloxi's,  fated, 

Eescue  from  their  fury  hath, 

And  they  hear  the  foeman  hated, 

Shouting  loud  in  deathless  wrath, 
Yowing  from  their  hearts  of  bloodshed,  vengeance  in  a 
brother's  path. 

Long  the  enemy's  siege  had  lasted, 
Haunted,  jeered  on  every  side  ; 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


28  THE  SOUTHERN    AMARANTH, 

Many  a  weary  hour  they  fasted, 

(Choosing  in  their  savage  pride 

.Famine  sooner  far  than  pardon  yielded  by  a  soul  blood- 
dyed.) 

Worn  with  hunger,  weak  and  fainting, 

Scorning  still  their  arms  to  yield, 

They  arose — their  dark  skins  painting, 

As  they  would  for  battle  field, 
^Eobed  in  plumes  and  gaudy  fringes,  armed  with  bow 

and  axe  and  shield. 

Gathering  all  their  men  and  maidens, 

Silently  the  fort  they  left, 

Silently,  but  sorrow  laden, 

Of  their  hunting  fields  bereft, 

Dying  of  the  pangs  of  hunger — tentless  by  the  foeman's 
theft ; 

It  was  midnight  in  the  distance — 

In  the  west  the  soft  moon's  smile, 

Heightened  by  a  star's  assistance, 

Lighted  up  the  forest  aisle, 

Down  the  long  and  moon-lit  vista  wound  the  men  in  In 
dian  file. 

On  they  marched,  their  war  plumes  shaking, 
In  the  fitful  midnight  breeze, 
Greeted  by  the  mournful  breaking, 
Of  the  sad  waves  of  the  seas, 
Or  the  sound   of  summer  sighing  through  the  long- 

boughed  forest  trees ; 
On  they  marched  into  the  water, 
Dark,  cool  water  of  the  bay, 


PASCAGOULA.  29 

Warrior  young  and  Indian  daughter, 
"Women,  chieftains,  veterans  grey, 

Turning  round  or  shrinking  never  from  the  dashing  of 
the  spray. 

Down,  far  down  the  stream  they  drifted, 
In.  their  rich  and  wild  attire, 
And  their  women's  dark  hair  lifted, 
By  the  white  waves  stronger,  higher, 

While  they  chaunted  mournful  music,  mingling  grieif 

with  mournful  ire  ; 
On.  the  banks  the  savage  yelling 
Of  their  fierce  pursuers  rose, 
But  triumphant  waves  were  swelling, 
Yainly  did  they  lift  their  bows, 

And  Biloxi's  fated  nation  turned  and  scoffed  upon  their 
foes. 

In  the  waves  they  sank  deriding 

Vengeance  in  their  grand  despair, 

And  their  plaint  was  heard  subsiding 

"With  the  low  tones  of  the  air, 

And  the  murmuring  of  the  waters  dashing  through  their 
chief's  bright  hair ; 

Still  is  heard  that  lamentation, 

In  the  mystic  sounds  that  rise 

Nightly  from  a  buried  nation 

Who  could  thus  a  foe  surprise  ; 

"While  as  spirits  still  they  linger 

Where  their  sun  of  glory  set, 
Ohieftain  dark,  and  maiden  singer,  chanting  forth  a  r©~ 

quiem  yet 
SOUTHERN  OPINION. 


30  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


L.    BTJKKOUGHS,  OF  SAVANNAH,  GA. 

THEY  are  ringing  Peace  on  my  weary  ear, 

No  Peace  to  this  heavy  heart, 
They  are  ringing  Peace,  I  hear !  I  hear  ! 

Oh  !  God !  how  my  hopes  depart. 

They  are  ringing  Peace  from  the  mountain  side, 

With  a  hollow  sound  it  comes  ; 
They  are  ringing  Peace  o'er  the  swelling  tide, 

While  the  billows  sweep  our  homes. 

They  are  ringing  Peace,  and  the  spring- tide  blooms 

Like  a  garden  fresh  and  fair, 
But  our  martyrs  sleep  in  their  silent  tombs, 

Do  they  hear !     0  God !  do  they  hear  ? 

They  are  ringing  Peace,  and  the  battle  cry, 

And  the  bayonet's  work  are  done, 
And  the  armor  bright  they  are  laying  by, 

From  the  brave  sire  to  the  son. 

And  the  musket's  clang,  and  the  soldier's  drill, 

And  the  tattoo's  nightly  sound, 
We  shall  hear  no  more  with  a  joyous  thrill, 

Peace,  Peace,  they  are  ringing  around. 

There  are  women  still  as  the  stifled  air 
On  the  burning  desert's  track, 


PEACE.  31 

Not  a  cry  of  joy,  not  a  welcome  cheer, 
And  their  brave  sons  coming  back. 

There  are  fair  young  heads  in  their  morning  pride, 

Like  the  lilies  pale  they  bow, 
Just  a  memory  left  to  the  soldier's  bride, 

God  help,  God  help  them  now ! 

There  are  martial  steps  that  we  may  not  hear, 

There  are  forms  that  we  may  not  see, 
Death's  muster-roll  they  have  answered  clear, 

They  axe  free — thank  God,  some  are  free  1 

Not  a  fetter  fast,  not  a  prisoner's  chain 

For  the  noble  army  gone, 
No  conqueror  comes  in  the  heavenly  plain, 

Peace,  Peace  to  the  dead  alone ! 

They  are  ringing  Peace,  but  strangers  tread 

O'er  the  land  where  our  fathers  trod, 
And  our  birthright  joys  like  a  dream  are  fled, 

And  Thou,  where  art  Thou,  oh  God  1 

They  are  ringing  Peace.     Not  here,  not  here, 

Where  the  victor's  march  is  set, 
Roll  back  to  the  North  its  mocking  cheer, 

No  Peace  to  the  Southland  yet. 

April,  1865. 


32  THE   SOUTHERN  AMAKANTH. 


BY  M.    E.    H. 


IN  the  grassy  lane,  as  the  sun  went  down, 
He  slackened  his  fevered  and  weary  feet, 

Behind,  lay  the  ruined  and  battered  town, 
Before  him  the  country,  deserted  yet  sweet ! 

Before  him,  too,  loomed  the  sunset  sky, 

Where  the  lurid  clouds  blazed  brilliantly. 

There  were  woodlands,  green  uplands,  and  rolling  hills, 

Fairy -like  stretches  of  lan(J  and  mist, 
Labyrinths  of  thickets,  and  silent  rills, 

That  threaded  the  meadows  like  amethyst ; 
A  valley  barren  of  aught  but  trees, 
"Whose  pennons  of  branches  swung  wild  in  the  breeze. 

Like  one  a-dreaming,  with  face  downcast, 

He  stood,  unheeding  the  fading  day, 
Till  darkness  surrounding,  awoke  him  at  last, 

When  clutching  his  musket,  he  strode  away, 
First  right  then  left,  'till  he  crossed  the  wood, 
Close  girding  the  valley's  solitude. 

No  chirp  of  cricket,  no  twitter  of  birds, 

Woke  here  the  dread  quiet  that  gathered  around, 

No  laughter,  no  welcome  to  home-driven  herds, 
No  home's  happy  mirth  in  the  silence  profound — 

Only  his  step  crushed  the  withered  grass, 

Only  his  voice  moaned  a  helpless  "  Alas  I'' 


HOME — AFTEK  THE   WAE.  33 

As  his  glance  searched  wildly  that  old,  old  scene, 
His  sorrowful  face  blanched  a  paler  hue, 

No  trace  where  loved  household  fires  had  been, 
No  vestige  of  home  in  that  dusky  view  ; 

Only  charred  timbers,  and  ridges  of  stone, 

And  chimneys  dismantled  and  overthrown. 


Bank  grasses  waved  in  the  roofless  space, 
And  dark  moss  crested  each  fallen  wall, 

And  he  turned  away  with  a  rigid  face, 
For  desolation  enshrouded  all ; 

Such  ruin  he  little  had  thought  to  see, 

And  his  heart  surged  o'er  with  its  misery. 

"  I  fain  would  linger,"  he  gloomily  said, 
"  But  home  is  no  longer  home  for  me ; 

Here  bats  go  circling  about  my  head, 
And  the  owl  is  monarch  of  all  I  can  see. 

No  wife's  ear  to  heed  my  returning  feet, 
No  children  to  sate  me  with  kisses  sweet. 


1  If  I  could,  I  would  blot  from  my  heart  those  years 
That  have  flown  since  last  on  this  spot  I  stood ; 

Those  terrible  years  of  anguish- wrung  tears, 
And  battle-fields  streaming  with  human  blood, 

Where  I  and  legions  have  recklessly  fought, 

For  the  country  our  forefathers'  lives  had  bought 

"  Armed  numbers  have  conquered,  while  I  have  lost 
Ev'ry  dear  heart-blossom  that  brightened  my  life, 


34  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

And  all  that  is  left  me  is  memory,  crost 

With  broken  visions  of  home  and  strife. 
Home  ?     No  more  home  for  the  soldier's  head, 
Save  the  final  one  shelt'ring  his  slumbering  dead  1" 

BAXTIMCKE. 


BY  CATHERINE  A.    WAEFIELD. 

You  can  never  win  them  back ; 

Never,  never; 
Tho'  they  perish  on  the  track 

Of  your  endeavor  : 
Tho'  their  corses  strew  the  earth 
That  smiled  upon  their  birth, 
And  tho'  blood  pollute  each  hearth, 

Stone  forever ! 

They  have  risen  to  a  man — 

Stern  and  fearless. 
Of  your  curses  and  your  ban 

They  are  careless. 
Every  hand  is  on  its  knife ; 
Every  gun  is  primed  for  strife ; 
Every  palm  contains  a  life — 

High  and  peerless  I 

You  have  no  such  blood  is  theirs, 
For  the  shedding: 


SOUTHERN   CHANT   OF  DEFIANCE.  35 

In  the  vein  of  cavaliers 

Was  its  heading. 
You  have  no  such  stately  men 
In  your  abolition  den, 
Marching  on  through  foe  and  fen, 

Nothing  dreading ! 

They  may  fall  beneath  the  fire 

Of  your  legions, 
Paid  with  gold  for  murderous  hire — 

Bought  allegiance ; 
But  for  every  drop  you  shed, 
You  shall  have  a  mound  of  dead, 
So  that  vultures  may  be  fed 

In  all  your  regions. 

But  the  battle  to  the  strong 

Is  not  given, 
While  the  Judge  of  right  and  wrong 

Sits  in  Heaven ! 
And  the  God  of  David  still 
Ouides  the  pebble  with  his  wilL 
There  are  giants  yet  to  kill — 

Wrongs  unshriven  1 


86  THE  SOUTHEEN  AMARANTH. 


BY  VIRGINIA  MADISON.       (MISS  S.    A.    BKOCK,    OF  VIRGINIA.) 

ALONG-  the  city's  frowning  ramparts  all  was  still ! 

No  sound  arose  to  check  the  watchful  sentry's  tread  ; 
The  picket's  gun  across  his  shoulder  laid — the  shrill 

Whistle  of  the  deadly  bullet  shrieked  not  o'er  his 
head. 

No  drum's  long-roll  the  wakeful  watchman  stirred ; 

Nor  all  around  were  scenes  or  sounds  of  battle ; 
Above  him  in  the  air  the  little  chirping  bird 

His  matin  carol  sang ;  instead  of  musket's  warring 
rattle. 

It  was  a  soft  and  balmy,  cheerful  April  morn, 
The  hum  of  business  all  was  hushed  and  quiet  ; 

The  breezes  played  like  whispers  newly  born, 
With  thousand  perfumes,  wafting  odorous  riot. 

Above  the  ancient  edifice  that  crowns  the  city's  height, 
There  floated  free,  the  snow-white,  star-crossed  banner 

of  our  cause; 

The  glist'ning  oriflamme,  that  like  a  ray  of  light 
Led  us  in  victory's  path,  with  never  a  thought  to 
pause. 

*  April  2d  and  3d,  1865. 


THE   FALL   OF   RICHMOND.  37 

In  hoc  signo  vinces  !     It  was  the  charmed  cry 
That  rested  in  that  proud  labarum  of  our  love  ; 

The  talisman  in  letters  bright  upon  our  Southern  sky : 
'Twas  written  on  each  trusting  heart,  as  though  in 
fire  above ! 

.]S"o  sound  was  heard  the  holy  Sabbath  calm  to  mar, 
Save  gushing,  gurgling  waters,  laughing,  sporting 

wild; 
As  o'er  their  rocky,  willowy  bed  they  tumbled,  and 

afar — 

All  plashing,  foaming,  frothing,  played  wanton  as  a 
child 

Anon,  the  sacred  church  bells  pealed  their  matin  call, 
And  thousands'  footsteps  wended  then  their  way 

sTo  fanes,  in  which  the  great  "  I  AM  " — the  mighty  Lord 

of  all, 
Bids  those  that  love  him  oft  to  come  and  pray. 

U(  The  Lord  is  in  his  Holy  Temple,"  said  the  lowly  voice 
Of  pious  priests — "  Let  all  the  earth  before  him  silence 
keep ; 

Let  grateful,  happy  hearts  before  his  throne  rejoice, 
And  hearts  for  sin  contrite,  bow  low,  and  weep." 

And  then  arose  confession  clean  of  crime, 

And  prayer  our  Lord  and  Master  taught  while  here  on 

earth, 

And  then  the  psalm,  in  solemn  chaunt  sublime — 
The  Creed,  the  Litany — the  cheerful  hymn  in  mu 
sic's  praiseful  mirth. 

And  with  the  "  Book  of  Books  "  before  them  reverent 
spread, 


38  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

With  trembling  earnestness,  the  men  within  the  altars 

sought, 
In  pastures  green  the  footsteps  of  their  flocks  to  lewi, 

And  all,  inspired  with  heavenly  love,  and  gracious- 
wisdom,  taught. 

And  one  there  was,  with  bowed  head,  and  temples  grey 

with  care, 

Who  listened  meekly  to  the  words  that  fell  like  sooth 
ing  balm, 
And  while  he  listened,  fervently  sent  up  a  prayerr 

That  Christ  his  errors  would  forgive,  and  grant  him* 
holy  calm. 

For  on  his  shoulders  bent,  a  nation's  load  was  placed, 
And  furrows  deep,  his  rounder  cheek  had  plowed ; 
Across   his  massive  brow   broad  lines   of  pain  we^ 

traced, 

And  his  lithe  form  from  thought,  and  not  with  age? 
was  bowed. 

E'en  as  he  listened,  and  his  prayers  arose 

Like  incense  sweet  before  his  Maker's  sight, 
And  those  were  upward  borne,  who,  to  his  great  heart, 

close 

So  long  were  pressed,  that  God  would  shield  them  by 
his  might 

Along  the  temple's  stilly  aisle  a  messenger  appeared, 
With  tidings  for  the  man  round  whom  our  burdens-* 

centred ; 
And  as  the  missive's  seal  he  broke,  his  fingers  shook,  as; 

though  he  heard 

The  peal  of  Doom,  or  ghostly  Fate  had  in  the  ten> 
pie  entered! 


UNIVEBSITTY 


THE  FALL   OF  KICHMOND.  39 

No  word,  or  other  sign  gave  he,  of  all  his  great  heart 

felt— 
With  eyes  as  calm,  and  clear — with  step  as  stately, 

went  he  forth, 
As  when  before  the  altar  he  had  meekly  knelt, 

And  there  had  placed  his  cares,  with  all  their  weight 
and  worth. 

And  quicker  than  the  lightning's  flash,  then  through 

the  crowd  there  ran, 
A  whisper  ominous  of  the  woe,  that  on  them  was  to 

break ; 
And  friend  looked  in  the  face  of  friend,  and  man  on 

man, 

For  light,  for  help, — that  hope  might  not  their  hearts 
forsake. 

But  blank  dismay,  and  terror  sat  on  every  face, 
And  hearts  beat  hard,  in  mighty  awe  and  dread . 

And  grand  confusion  reigned  within  that  holy  place, 
That  echoed  wildly  with  fleet  footsteps'  busy  tread. 

Again  the  bells  pealed  forth !  yet  not  their  Sabbath  call, 
But  notes  of  horror ! — Ah !  in  fearful  clashing, 

As  though  the  shrieks  of  Fate  exulted  o'er  our  fall, 
And  madly  laughed,  as  to  the  earth  our  cup  of  hope 
was  dashing. 

And  on  the  thronged  streets,  where  morning's  Sabbath 

calm, 
Brooded  like  wings  of  Peace,  o'er  angels'  shoulders 

folded, 
"  Confusion  worse   confounded"  bore   high   the   victor's 

palm, 
Portraying  scenes  of  woe  in  horrid  prescience  moulded. 


40  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

And  evening  came ;  but  not  with,  hope  returned, — 

But  dim  forebodings  mingled  with  despair ; 
While  Ruin's  wings  unfurled,  and  eyes  that  glared  and 

burned, 

Shot  vengeful,  like  red  meteors,  through  the  murky 
air. 

And  myriad  footsteps  pressed  with  clanging  tread, 

And  hurried  rushing  wildly  to  and  fro ; 
And  faces  paled,  as  though  the  heart  were  dead, 

And  bounding  pulses  ceased  to  ebb  and  flow. 

And  sudden  partings  then  there  were,  and  "  choking 

sighs ;" 

"  Such  as  on  earth,  may  be  repeated  never  !" 
Ah  !  who  could  guess  if  morning's  light  again  should 

rise, 

Since  upon  morn  "so  sweet,"  such  awful  night  could 
hover. 

• 
Ah !  who  can  paint  the  scenes  on  which  alone 

Rested  the  eyes  of  Him,  who  looketh  on  the  heart ; 
Who  saw  the  dear  domestic  idols  on  war's  altar  laid,  so 

prone ; 
And  heard  the  prayers  that  rose  from   souls  thus 

rudely  doomed  to  part. 

Nor  tongue,  nor  pen,  nor  yet  the  fancy  can  portray 
The  deep  heart- wretchedness — the  courage — faith — 

With  which  we  knelt  before  God's  throne  to  pray, — 
And  buckled  on  fresh  sandals  for  our  bloody  path. 

And  midnight  came ;  when  from  afar  we  heard 
The  echoing  shriek  that  told  of  friends  departed ; 


THE   FALL   OF   RICHMOND.  41 

And  then  our  hearts  grew  still,  as  though  some  rav'nous 

bird 
That  boded  doom,  had  in  that  shriek  upstarted. 

Great  God !  e'en  now,  as  these  rude  lines  I  trace, 
Comes  recollection  back  like  vampire  stealing 

My  heart's  warm  blood !     Can  time  or  age  efface 

What  mem'ry  now  holds  up,  in  such  minute  reveal 
ing? 

The  night  grew  on  apace,  in  prayers,  not  tears, 

For  blessed  tears  come  not  to  eyes  in  misery  burning ; 

."No  gentle  dew — but  sighs  that  rent,  and  direful  fears, 
As  back  upon  our  hearts,  our  spirit's  eyes  were  turn 
ing. 

And  morning  neared ;  and  then  a  crash  more  loud 
Than  thousand  thunders  all  compressed  in  one. 

Shook  the  resounding  hills ; — and  Death  to  Ruin  bowed ; 
And  mocking,  laughed,  to  see  her  direful  work  begun. 

As  the  faint  streaks  of  dawn  above  the  East  rose  high. 
And  the  red  rays  of  sunlight  flushed  the  mountains 
far, 

And  shed  a  roseate  sheen  upon  the  river  nigh, 

And  paled  the  silvery  light  of  morning's  virgin  star. 

Above,  a  dark  and  sullen,  murky  cloud,  it  shone, 

That  breathed  a  sulphurous  vapor  like  the  realms  of 
woe; 

Destruction's  veil ! — and  breaking  through  the  tone 
Of  Ruin's  wild  ha !  ha's  !     Hope's  most  relentless  foe. 


42  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

And  soon  fierce  tongues  of  flame,  in  fury  sporting  wild. 
Shot  up  like  hellish  demons  high  in  morning  air ; 

And  in  fantastic  vengeance  leaped,  Destruction's  favor 

ite  child ; 
Alike  unheeding  anguish,  sighs  and  pra}rer. 


Anon  was  heard  an  old,  familiar  strain, 

That  had  been  wont  to  waken  pleasure's  rapturous 

thrill ; 
The  patriot's  smile,  but  now  alas  !  'twere  vain 

As  charmer's  voice  to  adder  deaf  and  stilL 

It  told  a  story  born  of  astreate  flag, 

When  Freedom  flung  her  banner  to  the  breeze  ; 
But   now,  o'er   every  height,  through   every   dell  and 

,    crag, 

The  notes  of  Freedom's  death  were  wailing  through 
the  trees. 

And  as  that  gaudy  ensign  flaunted  vainly  out, 

Each  stripe  seemed  but  a  gash,  encrimsoned  with  life's 

gore, 

Drawn  from  our  Heeding  hearts  by  tyrant's  fearful  knout ; 
Each  star  a  Hazing  Irand  that  scorched  our  being's 
core. 

Ah!  we  had  loved  it  once — that  starred   and  striped 
flag- 

Our  idol  it  had  been — our  talisman  of  light ; 
But  now,  alas !  alas !  the  emblem  dire  to  drag 

Fair  Freedom's  form  to  slavish,  cowering  night 


THE   FALL   OF   RICHMOND.  45 

And  multitudes  there  were,  of  strange  and  unknown- 
forms, 
From   almost  every   clime    that  claims  the   air  of 

Heaven ; — 
Exultant?     No  !     But  awed  before  the  storms 

Of  war,  that  crashed  like  Alpine  heights  when  riveiL 

When  noontide  came,  a  winding  sheet  of  fire 
Enwrapped  the  city  in  its  crimson  shroud ; 

And  eddying  sheets  of  sparks  flashed  up  in  dreadful  ire,, 
While  Kuin's  howl  of  triumph  echoed  loud  ! 

Above  it  all,  through  clouds  of  sulphurous  woe, 

The  sun  rolled  like  an  orb  of  blood,  all  vengeful  in. 

mid-air ; 
Ah,  righteous  Heaven  !  and  'twill  be  even  so, 

When  God  shall  blast  this  sphere,  which  now  smiles 
bright  and  fair. 

Ah  !  man  was  powerless  before  the  awful  sight, 
For  all  the  air  around  was  but  of  fire  the  breath ; 

And  hearts  with  vengeance  filled,  grew  cold,  in  sheer 

affright, 
Before  the  dizzy,  hideous,  howling  dance  of  Death  I 

Its  music  was  the  crash  of  bursting  shell, 

The  roar  of  flames  and  shrieks  of  wild  despair  ; 

Oh,  God !  were  scenes  more  terrible,  when  fell 

The  demon    angels  from  their  place  in  Heaven  so 
fair? 

The  day  wore  on ;  and  as  the  sun  was  near  its  setting, 
The  rushing  stream  near  by,  was  with  a  crackling 
murmur  blent ; 


44  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

As  if  Destruction,  Famine  saw,  and  further  work  for 
getting, 
Sated,  sang  to  herself  a  song  of  sweet  content. 

And  evening  came ;  and  o'er  the  pall  of  smoke 

That  draped  like  funeral  crape,  the  desolate  ramparts 

far; 
41  Wight  drew  her  sable  mantle,"  (and  over  hearts,  that 

broke 

In  anguish  none  can  paint,)  "  and  pinned  it  with  a 
star  r 

And  as  it  mates  came  out,  and  one  by  one 

Pierced  through  the  murky  veil,  like'  diamond  flashes, 

They  paler  grew,  as  saw  they,  where  they  shone, 

But  crumbling  walls,  and  smouldering  heaps  of  ashes ! 

The  gentle  moon  looked  sorrowful  and  trist, 
And  round  her  drew  a  circling  bow  of  tears  ; 

And  hid  her  radiant  face  behind  the  cloudy  mist, 

As   mourning  weepers  veil   their  sighs,  and  throbs 
and  prayers. 


And  am  I  done  ?  and  is  my  story  told  ? — 
Told  quite,  in  all  its  varied,  saddened  phases 

Of  hopes  that  rose  as  Titans  rose  of  old, 

To  war  with  Fate  and  powers  in  highest  places  ? 

Hopes,  that  sprang  agile  as  Minerva  armed, 

From  head  of  Jove,  to  wrestle  fierce  with  might ; 

Hopes,  that  each  trusting,  valiant  bosom  warmed 
As  heart  breathed  unto  heart,  the  magic  watchword- 
"  Eight!" 


THE   FALL   OF   RICHMOND.  45 

As  draws  the  night  its  curtain  o'er  the  world, 
As  stars  that  fade  before  the  sunlight's  shimmer, 

Our  hopes  were  paling  as  our  banner  there  we  furled, 
And  scarce  remained  of  all  their  light,  a  flickering 
glimmer. 

Beneath  that  city's  blackened,  crumbling  walls, 

A  nation's    hopes    lie   crushed,  to  be   exhumed — • 
never  (?) 

As  falls  the  stars  from  Heaven — when  Freedom  falls, 
The  light  of  Hope  dies  out — dies  out,  alas  !  forever ! 

And  now  I  sit  and  mournful  sing  the  song, 

Whose  heart  refrain  is,  " Shall  we  e'er  be  free?" 

Shall  Phoenix-like  those  hopes  from  ashes  spring  ere 

long? 
Or  Eachel  mourn  bereft  for  aye — a  nation's  Niobe  ? 

NEW  YORK,  MAKCH  18,  1867. 


BY  VIBGINIA  MADISON.       (MISS  S.    A.    BBOCK.) 

from  the  rocky  heights  it  comes, 

Of  the  old  Blue  Ridge ! 

Where  it  springs  from  the  earth  in  a  crystal  lake, 
O'er  which  the  lights  and  shadows  break 

In  a  sportive  glimmer  ; 
For  the  sun  pours  over  its  dazzling  sheen, 
Through  a  tangled  mass  of  evergreen — 

And  the  moonlight's  shimmer 

Is  pale  and  tender  ; 

And  in  midnight  splendor 
The  stars  look  down  from  the  arching  skies, 
"With  a  courting  smile  in  their  cheery  eyes, 

As  the  night-bird  sings, 

And  folds  his  wings 
In  the  sturdy  oak  that  towers  above, 
Sheltering  the  treelets  with  his  love — 
His  arms  enclasped  with  the  towering  pine, 
And  lifting  high  the  tendriled  vine  ; 
While  granite  boulders  stand  around, 
In  silence  grim,  in  awe  profound, 
Unbroken,  save  by  the  birds,  and  the  stream 

*  The  name  given  by  the  early  settlers  to  James  Biver. 


THE   STOKY   OF   THE   POWHATAN.  47 

Which  breaks  through,  the  rocks  like  a  silvery  gleam, 

And,  as  on  it  rushes 

In  music  gushes, 

And  merrily  roams — 
A  single  stone  might  bridge. 

But  onward  it  wends  its  busy  way, 

And  kissed  by  the  flowers  that  margin  its  banks, 

In  murmurous  glee  it  gurgles  its  thanks ; 

While  the  playful  air 

A-wandering  there, 

'On  its  saucy  wings  catches  their  fragrant  breath, 
As  it  lovingly  steals  from  its  velvety  sheath, 
And  freighted  with  odors  coquettishly  plays 
Like  a  wanton  child  in  the  sun's  bright  rays ; 
And  laughingly  sports  o'er  the  little  stream 
That  flashes  along  like  the  lightning's  gleam 

In  its  beauteous  course,  until 

Others  commingle : — yet  still 

It  pauses  never, 

For  now  a  river 

This  streamlet  has  grown, 

And  its  musical  tone 

Is  deeper  and  louder, 

And  stronger  and  prouder, 

As  it  ripples  and  breaks,  'gainst  the  boulders  grey . 
And  the  giant  sycamore  rears  its  head 
O'er  fragile  willows,  that  bending  spread 
Their  feathery  boughs  on  the  river's  breast, 
That  a  kiss  returns  ; — but  never  at  rest. 
It  rolls  along  in  a  mightier  flow, 
Broader,  and  deeper,  and  still  and  slow — 
Like  muffled  thunders,  deep  and  low, 


48  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH, 

In  the  brooding  storm — its  waters  go, 

That  no  longer  a  stone  may  bridge  I 

Once,  on  its  banks  the  red  man  trodr 
And  worshipped  untutored  his  heathen  God. 
The  smoke  of  his  wigwam  'mid  the  trees 
Was  lifted  and  sported  by  every  breeze ; 
While  in  and  out  the  tim'rous  deer, 
And  the  panther  fierce,  and  the  hungry  bear 
From  the  stream  would  slake  their  thirst, 
When  a  cry  exultant  would  oft-times  burst — 

A  savage  yell 

Through  brake  and  dell, 

Was  the  voice  that  wakened  the  echoes  around 
And  throbbed  on  the  air  with  a  mocking  sound. 
When  o'er  his  shoulders  he  strapped  his  quiver, 
And  his  birch  canoe,  launched  on  the  river, 
Onward  would  float  o'er  the  glassy  stream, 
Like  his  arrow's  flight,  or  the  fire-fly's  gleam  ;— 

Not  dreaming  of  dangers, 

Or  the  coming  of  strangers, — 
Or  with  naught  to  disturb  his  fancies  wild, 
This  happy,  free-born  forest  child 
Wended  his  way  through  the  gloom  profound 
Of  his  vast  and  lordly  hunting-ground ; 
Or  dreamily  glided  over  the  stream, 
By  the  faithful  light  of  the  North  star's  beam, 
To  where  was  the  home  of  the  Indian  maid 
Round  whom  his  loving  fancy  played, 
As  he  hunted  the  deer  or  fished  in  the  river : 
For  in  the  breast  of  man  there  dwelleth  ever, 

Whether  in  savage  or  in  sage, 

In  every  clime,  in  every  age, 
A  trouble  sweet,  a  torturing  thrill, 


THE   STORY  OF  THE   POWHATAN.  49 

A  honey'd  poison,  that  mocks  the  will — 
A  holy  impulse,  the  spirit  to  move — 
This  heavenly,  rapturous  torment,  is  LOVE  ! 

But  by  and  by,  the  pale-face  came 

To  build  a  home,  to  rear  a  fame. 

He  smoked  the  red  man's  "  pipe  of  peace," 

But  his  treach'rous  heart  was  ill  at  ease ; 

He  envied  the  grand  and  wide  domain, 

Of  this  hardy  child  of  forest  and  plain ; 

E'ven  while   the  smoke   curled  round  the  calumet's 

bowl, 

In  the  hidden  depths  of  his  secret  soul — 
Dark,  evil  designs  were  festering  there, 
On  his  lips  was  a  smile — in  his  heart  was  a  WAR ! 
And  the  lingering  echoes  of  stream  and  wood 
Were  waked  by  the  savage  cry  of  BLOOD  ! 

The  white  was  weak,  the  red  man  strong, 

Nor  would  the  struggle  have  lasted  long, 

Had  not,  when  the  war-club  poised  high, 

Decreed  by  the  chief,  his  foe  must  die, — 

Had  not,  in  gentle  woman's  breast, 

That  mercy  which  there  delights  to  rest — 

A  shield  spread  o'er,  in  a  child's  pure  form, 

To  shelter  the  captive  from  the  storm 

Of  hatred  that  tore  the  savage's  heart, 

And  burned  in  his  breast  like  the  lightning's  dart  :— 

With  a  pitying  tear  in  her  tender  eye, 

And  a  hand  to  her  father  uplifted  high — 

The  war-club  dropped  from  his  nerveless  grasp, 

And  the  loving  maiden  bent  to  clasp 

The  form  of  her  father's  hated  foe, 


50  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

Uplifted  his  head  and  bade  him  go : 
But  turning  to  Old  Virginia  lays, 
We'll  list  what  the  song  of  another  says  : 

"  Sjie  comes  like  the  fawn  of  the  forest, 

"With  a  bearing  mild  and  meek, 
The  blood  of  a  line  of  chieftains 
Eich  in  her  golden  cheek. 

"  With  a  crown  of  nodding  features, 

Set  round  with  glimmering  pearls  ; 
And  the  light  of  the  dreamy  sunshine 
Asleep  in  her  raven  curls. 

"  Our  own.  dear  Pocahontas, 

The  virgin-queen  of  the  West — 
With  the  heart  of  a  Christian  hero 
In  a  timid  maiden's  breast. 

*'  You  have  heard  the  moving  story, 

Of  the  days  of  long  ago ; 
How  the  tender  girlish  bosom, 

Shrunk  not  from  the  deadly  blow  ; 

"  How  the  valiant  son  of  England, 

In  the  woodland  drear  and  wild, 
Was  saved  from  the  savage  war-club, 
By  the  courage  of  a  child. 

"  And  now  in  the  light  of  glory, 

The  noble  figures  stand ; 
The  founder  of  Virginia, 

And  the  pride  of  our  Southern  land" 


THE   STORY   OF   THE    POWHATAN.  51 

A  crumbling  tower  now  marks  the  spot, 

Dismantled  of  ivy,  'twould  perchance  be  forgot, 

In  the  silence  that  reigns  unbroken  around, 

Too  sacred  and  deep  for  the  world's  busy  round — 

Did  not  History  o'er  it  her  bright  mantle  fling, 

In  a  drapery  of  love,  and  enchantingly  sing 

Where  the  young  Indian  queen,  her  trusting  heart  gave, 

"With  her  hand,  and  her  life,  to  the  Englishman  brave ! 

A  monument  grand  of  the  days  long  gone  by, 

And  we  gaze  on  the  ruin,  with  a  sweet,  tender  sigh. 


Time  sped  along !     .     .     .     .     The  pale-face  grew — 
The  red  men  weak — their  numbers  few. 
Their  forests  were  felled,  their  wigwams  gone — 
The  Indian  sad,  despised,  forlorn, 
Backward  and  backward  was  cruelly  press't 
Eor  hunting-grounds,  to  the  far,  far  West ! 
With  never  a  place  for  the  soles  of  his  feet, 
His  race  has  been  mournful,  and  weary  and  fl  eet ; 
Ever  pursued  and  ever  in  motion, 
He  will  sink  from  sight,  in  the  Western  ocean. 
*****         -K         * 

But  on  the  banks  of  this  storied  stream, 

Where  the  forest  had  grown,  where  the  sunset's  beam 

Had  flushed  through  the  trees,  the  wigwam,  there 

Rose  the  planter's  home,  the  mansion  fair. 

Before  him  outstretched  were  his  fields  of  grain, 

And  smiling  plenty  enlivened  the  plain  ; 

Nature,  by  Art  to  softness  subdued, 

Lost  only  in  beauty,  her  savage  mood  ; 

And  a  nation's  seed  were  planted  there, 

On  the  beauteous  shores  of  that  river  fair : 


52  THE    SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

A  nation — no  greater  the  world  hath  knowny 
The  foster  child  of  England's  throne. 

Years  flew  by  !     .     .     .     As  it  gained  a  name 

Engraven  high  on  the  scroll  of  Fame, 

The  cruel  mother  betrayed  her  child, 

And  dark  oppression,  stern  and  wild, 

In  legal  form  on  her  head  was  heaped. 

"When  forth  from  her  scabbard  her  young  sword  leaped. 

And  there  rang  from  her  lips  a  startling  cry, 

That  proved,  than  to  sheathe  it,  she  chose  to  die, 

'Twas  that  darling  word  to  the  lips  of  the  free, 

The  talisman  shout  of  "  LIBERTY  !" 

Tearful  and  sad  were  those  gloomy  days, 

Hushed  were  the  notes  of  joyful  lays  ; 

Yet  Sorrow  with  Hope  en  wreathed  her  song, 

While  Might  with  Eight  fought  fierce  and  long. 

Oft  Victory  seemed  in  the  balance  to  waver, 

And  stoutest  souls  in  fear  to  quaver, 

Till  they  turned  their  eyes  to  One  who  stood. 

Untouched,  amid  the  harvest  of  blood — 

Who,  kneeling  low,  on  the  virgin  sod, 

In  "forma  pauper  is  to  God," 

On  his  heart  bore  up  a  nation's  cares, 

On  his  lips  ascended  a  nation's  prayers. 

In  the  calm,  pure  faith  of  a  soul  all  shriven, 

He  lifted  his  trembling  hands  to  Heaven, 

And  catching  the  glory  that  circles  the  tbroner 

He  led  his  faithful  compatriots  on  ; 

No  danger  dreading,  and  undismayed, 

"  Victory  or  death !"  flashed  in  each  blade  ! 

And  the  world  looked  on  in  grand  surprise 

To  see  this  new-born  star  arise 


THE   STORY   OF   THE   POWHATAN.  53 

On  the  Western  horizon,  and  shed  its  light 
O'er  Fame's  proud  tower  and  Glory's  height, 
This  noble  chief- — VIRGINIA'S  son, 
'Our  own  immortal  WASHINGTON  ! 

And  the  river  rushed  on  in  its  murmurous  flow, 

And  the  glad  story  whisper'd,  soft  and  low. 

It  beheld  on  its  banks  the  oppressor  cower, 

His  sword  yield  up,  his  standard  lower, 

And  'twas  the  first  the  face  to  see 

Of  our  Heaven-crowned  goddess,  LIBERTY  ! 

And  catching  a  gleam  like  stars  in  the  night, 

It  lifted  its  voice  in  glorious  might. 

From  its  rise  in  the  hills  to  the  surging  main, 

Was  heard  alone  the  grateful  refrain 

That  it  vainly  imagined  was  never  to  cease — 

'Twas  one  sweet  word,  and  that  was  "  PEACE  !" 

"  Peace !  Peace  !"  it  sang  through  the  day  and  the  night, 

And  .echo  responded  in  rapturous  light, 

And  wafted  it  over  the  mountain  and  plain, 

Till  the  vocal  air  trilled  it  again  and  again  ; 

That  one- worded  anthem  of  brave  hearts  and  free, 

Under  the  Heaven-crowned  queen,  dear  LIBERTY  ! 

And  the  world  beheld  cities  tower  and  rise, 

Lifting  their  spires  to  the  arching  skies ; 

Sciences  flourished,  and  Arts  the  while, 

And  all  of  nature  wore  a  smile ; 

'The  curse  upon  man  from  our  land  seem'd  driven 

By  the  watchful,  ceaseless  care  of  Heaven ! 

O  halcyon  days !     Are  ye  past  and  gone — 

Fled  like  the  roseate  dreams  of  morn  ? 

Is  happiness  then,  but  a  faded  myth — 


54  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH- 

A  vision  to  lull  our  souls  wherewith  ? 
Is  happiness,  then,  but  to  mortals  given 
As  a  foretaste  here  of  the  joys  of  Heaven  T 
A  sweet'ner  of  ills  that  belong  to  earth, 
To  be  snatched  away  almost  at  its  birth ; 
Lest  the  soulless  clod  we  call  our  home, 
Should  plunge  our  souls  in  the  fearful  doom,. 
Of  the  guilty  who  lift  no  glance  on  high 
To  the  life  of  vast  Eternity? 

E'en  as  we  dreamed  on  in  our  fancied  bliss,. 

And  the  river  gurgled  its  song  of  peace  ; 

As  we  saw  on  its  banks  the  waving  grainr 

And  smiling  plenty  enliven  the  plain, 

Under  swarthy  hands  of  the  "  sons  or  toil,'r 

Happy  in  tilling  the  generous  soil, 

Contented  and  blessed  in  their  simple  mirth — 

"No  happier  children  had  mother  earth — 

We  recked  not  the  cloud  that  envy  had  thrown, 

So  small  'twas  at  first,  but  sullenly  grown 

Dark  and  foreboding,  loud  thunders  it  muttered, 

And  sounds  of  strange  vengeance,  and  hatred  it  uttered  £ 

Zig-zag  lightnings  across  it  wild  played 

In  blinding  flashes ;  but  brave,  undismayed, 

We  laughed  at  the  threats  of  a  coming  storm, 

And  the  blood  in  our  pulses  beat  healthy  and  warm?. 

For  were  we  not  sheltered  by  the  boughs  of  a  tree, 

Booted  and  nurtured  by  LIBERTY? 

Alas  !     .     .     Our  visions  were  vain  and  wild, 
More  vain  than  the  summer  dreams  of  a  child  I. 
For  a  crash  more  loud  than  the  thunder  peal,. 
And  lightning  more  vivid  than  fire  on  steel,. 
Echoed  and  flashed  when  that  river  fair 


THE   STORY   OF  THE   POWHATAN.  55 

Was  plowed  by  the  keel  of  the  "man-of-war." 
The  cloud  that  in  the  horizon  had  lowered, 
High  to  the  zenith  now  had  towered, 
And  our  fair  and  beauteous  Southern  sky- 
Was  hung  with  a  bloody  drapery. 

Full  soon  the  terrible  strife  began, 

"  Life  for  a  life,"  and  man  for  man ! 

"Where  late  the  proud  steamer  floated  o'er, 

And  the  merchant- ship  its  argosy  bore 

(Hither  and  thither)  its  freight  of  wealth, 

Proud  proofs  of  a  glorious  nation's  health ; 

There  lurked  along  like  things  of  night 

That  hate  the  day  and  fear  the  light, 

The  dire  enginery  of  death, 

All  belching  forth  a  sulphurous  breath  ; 

And  echo  caught  up  the  shriek,  the  howl, 

The  war-dog's  wrathful  and  sullen  growl, 

The  cry  of  dread,  as  it  rose  on  high, 

Through  the  welkin  round,  to  the  far-off  sky; 

Then  sank  in  its  tone  to  a  wail  of  woe. 

In  its  pitiful  agony,  tearful  and  low, 

Then  died  on  the  ear  forever  and  ever, 

In  the  circling  waves  of  the  saddened  river. 

Yet,  in  the  strain  of  this  tragic  story, 
Though  much  of  gloom,  there  is  more  of  glory, 
For  Freedom's  struggles  on  this  stream, 
Gild  many  a  page  in  the  book  of  Fame ; 
And  down  through  the  coming  years  of  Time, 
Historic  Truth  shall  make  sublime — 
Shall  illume  its  lore  in  the  glittering  track 
On  the  waters  left  by  the  Merrimac : 


56  THE   SOUTHEEN   AMARANTH. 

Shall  set  on  its  brow  that  radiant  gem, 

Our  wonderful  "  Iron  Diadem !" 

And  future  ages  re-echo  the  cry 

That  rose  from  its  decks  of  "  Victory !" 

Shall  gird  their  limbs  with  the  pennon  fair, 

That  toyed  and  played  in  the  soft  spring  air, 

While  it  waved  over  souls  as  brave  and  true, 

As  ever  the  breath  of  freedom  drew  ; 

As  loyal  and  leal  as  the  knights  of  old, 

Whose  honor  was  not  to  be  purchased  with  gold ; 

Whose  dearest  meed  was  their  country's  good, 

Though  costing  their  country's  richest  blood  ; 

Whose  pledge  to  Freedom  was  the  cry, 

"  With  her  to  live,  or  for  her  to  die  !" 

And  brave  and  dauntless  Buchanan  stood, 

While  surged  around  the  fire  and  flood ; 

And  far  over  carnage,  and  din  and  smoke 

The  prescient  eye  of  his  heart  awoke 

To  the  smile  that  played  o'er  his  chieftain's  face, 

And  to  its  sternness  lent  a  witching  grace ; 

And  the  grasp  of  the  hand  of  noble  Lee, 

That  noblest  son  of  LIBERTY  ! 

And  the  wild  acclaim  of  his  countrymen  dear, 

Gave  nerve  to  his  will,  to  his  heart  gave  cheer, 

And  Yirginia,  the  laurels  of  victory  won, 

Through  the  gallant  skill  of  Maryland's  son ! 

Along  the  river's  classic  banks 
The  bristling  cannon  now  stood  in  ranks. 
In  morning's  light  or  in  evening's  gloom, 
Was  heard  the  wrathful,  angry  boom  ; 
At  midnight  deep,  the  direful  crashes 
Lightened  the  waters  with  lurid  flashes ; 


THE   STORY   OF   THE   rOWHATAJ?.  57 

And  radiant  noon  saw,  too,  the  sight 
That  morn  nor  eve,  nor  day,  nor  night 
Could  stop  or  stay,  for  hatred  sped  them, 
As  brother  unto  brother  led  them  ! 
But  hearts  grew  still,  and  chill  the  breath, 
When  spoke  these  messengers  of  Death  ! 

Years  passed  on  in  carnage  dire, 
In  blood  and  woe,  in  waste  and  fire. 
And  frighted  Plenty  fled  the  land 
"When  Kuin  gaunt,  stretched  forth  her  Land. 
And  all  the  glassy  stream  reflected 
The  monuments  that  she  erected, 
Por  burning  dwellings  lit  the  air, 
And  domes  and  spires  of  cities  near, 
Upreared  their  flaming  banners  high, 
In  fearful  mockery  to  the  sky ; 
While  War's  wild  voice  caught  up  the  roar 
And  laughed  more  wildly  than  before ; 
And  skeletons  all  hideous — grim — 
Pierced  through  the  war-clouds,  dark  and  dim, 
And  chimneys  bare,  and  blackened  walls, 
A_nd  ruined  homes,  deserted  halls, 
Mirrored  themselves  within  the  wave, 
Which  opened  wide — a  gaping  grave  ! 

And  there,  where  Liberty  had  birth, 
Where  first  Columbia  owned  her  worth, 
There  !  even  there  !     Oh  Heaven !— save  ! 
She  found  at  last  a  bloody  grave. 
Yes,  there  upon  Virginia's  sands, 
Tainly  outspread  her  pleading  hands. 
But  Tyranny  swept  her  rudely  by, 
And  mocked  her  last  imploring  cry ; 


58  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

His  brutal  heel,  he  forced  on  her  neck — 
"  Sic  Semper  Tyrannis  !" — Behold  the  wreck, 
Where  his  blood-stained  chariot  wheeled  its  way 
O'er  hearts  and  homes  in  his  direful  sway ! 
Meekly  she  folded  her  hands  on  her  breast, 
And  sank  with  her  children  entombed  to  rest, 
When  Peace  from  her  land  fled  far  in  affright, 
And  o'er  it  was  drawn  the  curtain  of  night  1 
Now,  now  on  the  breath  of  every  gale, 
Is  borne  the  notes  of  a  mournful  wail. 
For  the  sunny  South,  no  longer  free, 
Weeps  over  the  tomb  of  LIBERTY  ! 

Poor  Old  Dominion  !     .     .     .     0,  wretched  mother  t 

Yainly  her  anguish  she  struggles  to  smother, 

As  she  sees  her  daughters  before  her  stand 

With  cypress-crowned  brows,  and  the  beauteous  lai*i 

Decked  in  emblems  of  woe  !     Day  and  night  she 

weep 

O'er  her  loving  children's  untimely  sleep. 
As  she  drags  along  in  her  toils  and  pains, 
Alone  is  heard  the  clank  of  her  chains  ; 
And  prone  upon  her  native  sod, 
She  lifts  her  manacled  hands  to  God ; 
And  there  on  the  wings  of  her  burdened  air, 
Is  wafted  the  breath  of  her  agonized  prayer. 
The  poison  has  entered  her  inmost  soul, 
Its  waves  in  her  veins  like  fire  doth  roll ! 
The  torturous  links  have  been  press'd  in  her  flesh 
And  o'er  her  is  thrown  the  treach'rous  mesh 
Of  Tyranny's  weaving ;  yet  mute  she  stands 
As  the  lamb  in  sacrificial  hands, 
Though  the  pulsing  throes  of  heart-strings  quiver 


THE   STOIiY   OF   THE    POWHATAN.  59 

Like  broken  music-chords  forever. 

But  a  part,  thank  God  !  unfettered  remains, 

Though  the  poison  is  cank'ring  it  laughs  at  the  chains,, 

Thank  God  for  the  soul's  immortality, 

That  bids  it  untrammel'd  "  be  free  !  be  free  !  " 

That  sees  through  the  cloud  of  Freedom's  eclipse, 

The  sun  of  a  grand  apocalypse  ! 

The  river  rolls  on  in  its  mighty  flow, 

Broad  and  deep,  and  still  and  slow. 

No  longer  it  murmurs  the  notes  of  peace, 

As  free  and  as  blithe  as  the  birds  or  the  breeze  ; 

But  in  its  flow, 

So  calm  and  slow, 

Is  a  muffled  groan, 

Is  a  smother'd  moan ; 

On  the  breath  of  the  gale 

A  tremulous  wail ; 

In  the  tempest's  growl, 

Is  a  vengeful  howl ; 

A  shriek  and  a  prayer, 

On  the  pulsing  air ; 

The  sun's  bright  rays 

Become  a  haze 

Of  circling  tears ; 

And  boding  fears, 

Pale  the  rainbow's  dyes, 

As  doubts  arise 

Lest  the  promise  given, 

By  the  signet  in  heaven, 
Is  lost  in  the  guilt  of  guilty  man, 
"When  his  vent'rous  footsteps  counter  ran 

To  the  mandates  of 


60  THE  SOUTHERN  AMAEANTH. 

In  bringing  of  blood 

A  crimson  flood, 

To  dye  the  waves 

Of  the  watery  graves ! 
The  stars  look  down  with  a  sadder  light 
From  the  mourning,  piteous  brow  of  night, 

And  list  the  groaning, 

The  shrieks  and  the  moaning, 

The  very  heart-swelling, 

That  Darkness  is  telling ! 
As  the  river  runs  on  its  ceaseless  way, 
Its  waters  no  longer  sportively  play — 

No  longer  cheerily, 

No  longer  merrily, 

But  wearily, 

Drearily, 

In  grief  and  in  woe, 

They  murmuririgly  go 
Onward,  and  onward,  forever  in  motion, 
Till  their  cries  are  drowned  in  the  bellowing  ocean 
METEOPOLITAN  EECOBD. 


BY  PAUL  H.    HAYNE. 

[THE  infamous  crime  of  McNeil,  perpetrated  in  one  of  our  "Western 
States,  has  now  met  with  the  shuddering  reprobation  of  Christendom. 
But  at  the  time  the  following  verses — cast,  as  the  reader  will  perceive, 
in  a  partly  dramatic  mould — were  composed,  ten  Confederates  had 
been  hastily  and  ignominiously  murdered  by  order  of  a  Federal 
commander,  on  a  charge  afterwards  proven  to  be  false;  and  that 
one  of  the  unfortunate  victims,  (a  mere  youth, )  voluntarily  sacrificed 
his  life  to  rescue  his  friend,  a  man  advanced  in  years  and  with  a  large 
family. 

In  the  Poem  this  latter  individual  is  represented  as  unaware  of  the 
youth's  resolve  until  it  has  been  executed. 

Between  the  first  and  second  parts  of  the  piece,  about  twenty-four 
hours  are  supposed  to  have  elapsed.] 

PARTI. 

[PLACE — A  Federal  Prison — A  Confederate  chained,  and  a  Visitor,  his 
Friend.  J 

"  How  says't  thou  ?  die  to-morrow  ?     Oh  !  my  friend  I 

The  bitter,  bitter  doom  ! 
What  hast  thou  done  to  tempt  this  ghastly  end — 

This  death  of  shame  and  gloom  ?" 

"  What  done  ?     Do  tyrants  wait  for  guilty-deeds, 

To  find  or  prove  a  crime — 
They,  who  have  cherished  Hatred's  fiery  seeds  : 

Hot  for  the  harvest-time  ? 


62  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

"  A  sneer  !  a  smile  !  vague  trifles  light  as  air— 
Some  foolish,  false  surmise 

Lead  to  the  harrowing  drama  of  despair 
Wherein — the  victim  dies ! 

•"  And  I  shall  perish  !     Comrade,  heed  me  not  I 

For  thus  my  tears  must  start — 
Not  for  the  misery  of  my  blasted  lot, 

But  hers  who  holds  my  heart ! 

•"  And  theirs,  the  flowers  that  wreathe  my  humble  hearth 

With  roseate  blush  and  bloom. 
To-morrow  eve,  they  stand  alone  on  earth, 

Beside  their  father's  tomb  ! 

41  There's  Blanche,  my  serious  beauty,  lithe  and  tall, 

With  pensive  eyes  and  brow — 
There's  Kate,  the  tenderest  darling  of  them  all, 

Whose  kisses  thrill  me  now  ! 

There's  little  Rose,  the  sunshine  of  our  days — 

A  tricky,  gladsome  sprite — 
How  vividly  come  back  her  winsome  ways, 

Her  laughters,  and  delight ! 

And  my  brave  boy — my  Arthur  !     Did  his  arm 

Second  his  will  and  brain, 
I  should  not  groan  beneath  this  iron  charm, 

Clasping  my  chains  in  vain ! 

Oh,  Christ !  and  hath  it  come  to  this  ?     Will  none 

Ward  off  the  ghastly  end  ? 
And  yet  methinks  I  heard  the  voice  of  one 

Who  called  the  old  man — Friend  I 


THE   SUBSTITUTE.  63 

May  all  the  curses  caught  from  deepest  hell 

Light  on  the  blood-stained  knave 
Who  laughs  to  hear  the  patriot's  funeral  knell, 

Blaspheming  o'er  his  grave  ! 

Away  !     Such  dreams  are  madness  !     My  pale  lips 

Had  best  besiege  Heaven's  ear, 
But  in  the  turmoil  of  my  mind's  eclipse, 

No  thought,  no  wish  is  clear. 

Dear  friend,  forgive  me  !     Sorrow,  frenzy,  ire — 

My  bosom's  ringing  guests — 
By  turn  have  whelmed  me  in  their  floods  of  fire — 

Fierce  passions,  swift  unrests. 

And  now,  farewell !     The  sentry's  warning  hand, 

Taps  at  my  prison  bars. 
We  part,  but  not  forever  !     There's  a  land, 

Comrade,  beyond  the  stars  !" 

41  Yea  !"  said  the  youth,  and  o'er  his  kindling  face 

A  saint-like  glory  came — 
As  if  some  prescient  Angel  breathing  grace, 

Had  touched  it  into  flame. 

PAKT  II. 

[PLACE—  The  same  Prison.—  PERSONS—  Confederate  Prisoner,  together 
with  McNeil  and  the  Jailer. 

The  hours  sink  slow  to  sunset !     Suddenly 

Eose  a  deep,  gathering  hum ; 
And  o'er  the  measured  stride  of  soldiery 

Boiled  out  the  muffled  drum  1 


64  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

The  prisoner  started  !  crushed  a  stifling  sigh, 
Then  rose  erect  and  proud  ! — 
Scorn's  lightning  quivering  in  his  stormy  eye, 
'Neath  the  brow's  thunder-cloud  ! 

And  girding  round  his  limbs  and  stalwart  breast 

Each  iron  chain  and  ring, 
He  stood  sublime,  imperial,  self-possessed — 

And  haughty  as  a  KING  ! 

The  "  dead  march  "  wails  without  the  prison  gate 

Up  the  calm  evening  sky  ; 
And  ruffian  jestings,  born  of  ruffian  hate, 

Make  loud,  unmeet  reply  ! 

The  hired  bravoes,  whose  pitiless  features  pall 

In  front  of  armed  men — 
But  whose  magnanimous  (?)  courage  will  not  quail 

Where  none  can  strike  again  I 

The  "  dead  march  "  wails  without  the  prison  wall, 

Up  the  calm  evening  sky  : 
And  timed  to  the  dread  dirge's  rise  and  fall, 

Move  the  fierce  murderers  by ! 

They  passed  ;  and  wondering  at  his  doom  deferred, 

The  Captive's  lofty  fire 
Sank  in  his  heart,  by  torturing  memories  stirred 

Of  Husband,  and  of  Sire ! 

But  hark  !  the  clash  of  bolt  and  opening  door  1 

The  tramp  of  hostile  heel ! — 
When  lo !  upon  the  darkening  prison  floor, 

Glared  the  false  hound — McNeil. 


THE   SUBSTITUTE.  65 

And  next  him,  like  a  bandog  scenting  blood, 

Boused  from  his  drunken  ease, 
The  grimy,  low-browed  jailer  glowering  stood, 

Clanking  his  iron  keys. 

"  Quick  !  sirrah !  strike  yon  rebel's  fetters  off, 

And  let  the  old  fool  see 
What  ransom  (with  a  low  and  bitter  scoff) — 

What  ransom  sets  him  free ! 

"  A  glorious  business  1    By  the  fiend,  I  think 

Bold  Butler's  put  to  shame  ! 
I  mark  his  lurid  honors  pale  and  sink 

Before  my  crimson  fame  !" 

As  the  night  traveller  in  a  land  of  foes 

The  warning  instinct  feels, 
That  through  the  treacherous  dimness  and  repose 

A  shrouded  Horror  steals ! — 

So,  at  these  veiled  words,  the  Captive's  soul 

Shook  with  a  solemn  dread — 
And  ghostly  voices,  prophesying  dole, 

Moaned  faintly  overhead ! 

His  limbs  are  freed  !  his  swarthy,  scowling  guide 

Leads  through  the  silent  town, 

Where  from   dim   casements — black    with  wrath  and 
pride, 

Stern  eyes  gleam  darkly  down ! 

They  halted  where  a  dense  wood  showered  around 

Dark  leaflets  on  the  sod, 
And  the  live  air  seemed  vocal  with  the  sound 

Of  wild  appeals  to  God  1 


66  THE   SOUTHERN    AMARANTH. 

Heaped,  as  if  common  carrion,  in  the  gloom, 

NINE  mangled  corpses  lay — • 
All  speechless  now — but  with  what  tongue  of  doom 

Eeserved  for  Judgment  Day  ! 

And  near  them,  but  apart,  ONE  youthful  form 

Pressed  a  fair  upland  slope, 
O'er  whose  white  brow  a  sunbeam  nickering  warm, 

Played  like  a  heavenly  hope  ! 

There,  with  the  same  grand  look  which  yester-night 

That  face  at  parting  wore, 
The  self-made  martyr  in  the  sunset  light 

Slept  on  his  couch  of  gore  ! 

The  sunset  waned  ;  the  wakening  forest  waved, 

Struck  by  the  north  wind's  moan, 
While  he,  whose  life  this  matchless  death  has  saved 

Knelt  by  the  corse — alone  ! 

SOUTHERN  ILLUSTRATED  NEWS. 


ADDRESS.  67 


DELIVERED     BY     MR.      KEEBLE,     AT     THE     OPENING     OF   THE   NEW 
THEATRE,    RICHMOND,    VIRGINIA,    FEBRUARY,    1863. 

A    PKIZE    POEM. 

BY  HABKT  TIMEOD,  OF   SOUTH   CABOUNA. 

A  FAIKY  ring 

Drawn  in  the  crimson  of  a  battle-plain — 
From  whose  weird  circle  every  loathsome  thing 

And  sight  and  sound  of  pain 
Are  banished,  'while  about  it  in  the  air, 
And  from  the  ground,  and  from  the  low-hung  skies, 

Throng,  in  a  vision  fair 
As  ever  lit  a  prophet's  dying  eyes, 

Grleams  of  that  unseen  world 
That  lies  about  us — rainbow  tinted  shapes 

With  starry  wings  unfurled, 
Poised  for  a  moment  on  such  airy  capes 

As  pierce  the  golden  foam 

Of  sunset's  silent  main, — 
"Would  image  what  in  this  enchanted  dome, 

Amid  the  night  of  War  and  Death, 
In  which  the  armed  city  draws  its  breath, 

We  have  built  up  ! 
For  though  no  wizard  wand  nor  magic  cup 

The  spell  hath  wrought, 
Within  this  charmed  fane  we  ope  the  gates 

Of  that  divinest  Fairyland, 

Where,  under  loftier  fates 


68  THE  SQUTHEEN  AMARANTH. 

Than  rule  the  vulgar  earth  on  which  we  stand, 
Move  the  bright  creatures  of  the  realm  of  thought 

Shut  for  one  happy  evening  from  the  flood 
That  roars  about  us,  here  you  may  behold — 

As  if  a  desert  way 

Could  blossom  and  unfold 

A  garden  fresh  with  May — 
Substantialized  in  breathing  flesh  and  blood, 

Souls,  that  upon  the  poet's  page 

Have  lived  from  age  to  age, 
And  yet  have  never  donned  this  mortal  clay. 

A  golden  strand 
Shall  sometimes  spread  before  you  like  the  isle- 

Where  fair  Miranda's  smile 
Met  the  sweet  stranger  whom  the  father's  art 

Had  led  unto  her  heart : 
Which,  like  a  bud  that  waited  for  the  light, 

Burst  into  bloom  at  sight ! 
Love  shall  grow  softer  in  each  maiden's  eyes 
As  Juliet  leans  her  cheek  upon  her  hand, 

And  prattles  to  the  night. 

Anon,  a  reverend  form 
With  tattered  robe  and  forehead  bare 
That  challenge  all  the  torments  of  the  air 

Goes  by ! 

And  the  pent  feelings  choke  in  one  long  sighr 
While  as  the  mimic  thunder  rolls,  you  hear 

The  noble  wreck  of  Lear 
Reproach  like  things  of  life  the  ancient  skies, 

And  commune  with  the  storm ! 
Lo !  next  a  dim  and  silent  chamber,  where, 
Wrapt  in  glad  dreams,  in  which  perchance  the  Moor 


ADDKESS.  69 

Tells  lais  strange  story  o'er, 
The  gentle  Desdemona  chastely  lies 
'Unconscious  of  the  loving  murderer  nigh. 

Then,  through  a  hush  like  death, 

Stalks  Denmark's  mailed  ghost. 
And  Hamlet  enters  with  that  thoughtful  breath 
Which  is  the  trumpet  of  a  countless  host 
xQf  reasons,  but  which  wakes  no  deed  from  sleep  ; 

For  while  it  calls  to  strife 
He  pauses  on  the  very  brink  of  fact, 
"To  toy  with  the  shadow  of  au  act, 
And  utter  those  wise  saws  that  cut  so  deep 

Into  the  core  of  life ! 

Nor  shall  be  wanting  many  a  scene 

Where  forms  of  more  familiar  mien, 

Moving  through  lowlier  pathways,  shall  present 

The  world  of  every  day  ; 
Such  as  it  whirls  along  the  busy  quay 
'Or  sits  beneath  a  rustic  orchard  wall, 
'Or  floats  about  a  fashion -freighted  hall, 
•Or  toils  in  attics  dark  the  night  away. 
Xove,  hate,  grief,  joy,  gain,  glory,  shame  shall  meet 
As  in  the  round  wherein  our  lives  are  pent. 

Chance  for  a  while  shall  seem  to  reign, 
While  Goodness  roves  like  Guilt  about  the  street ; 

And  Guilt  looks  innocent. 
But  all  at  last  shall  vindicate  the  right, 
'Crime  shall  be  meted  with  its  proper  pain, 
Motes  shall  be  taken  from  the  doubter's  sight, 
And  Fortune's  general  justice  rendered  plain. 
Of  honest  laughter,  there  shall  be  no  dearth, 
Wit  shall  shake  hands  with  humor,  grave  and  sweet, 


70  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Our  wisdom  shall  not  be  too  wise  for  mirttr,, 

Nor  kindred  follies  want  a  fool  to  greet. 

As  sometimes  from  the  meanest  spot  of  earth 

A  sudden  beauty  unexpected  starts, 

So  you  shall  find  some  germs  of  hidden  worth 

Within  the  vilest  hearts. 

And  now  and  then,  when  in  those  moods  that  turn: 
To  the  cold  Muse  that  whips  a  fault  with  sneers, 
You  shall,  perchance,  be  strangely  touched  to  learni 

You've  struck  a  spring  of  tears  ! 

But  while  we  lead  you  thus  from  change  to  change?,, 
Shall  we  not  find  within  our  ample  range 
Some  type  to  elevate  a  people's  heart — 
Some  hero,  who  shall  teach  a -hero's  part, 

In  this  distracted  time  ? 
Eise  from  thy  sleep  of  ages,  noble  Tell ! 
And,  with  the  Alpine  thunders  of  thy  voice, 
As  if  across  the  billows  unenthralled 
Thy  Alps  unto  the  Alleghanies  called, 

Bid  Liberty  rejoice  1 

Proclaim  upon  this  trans- Atlantic  strand 
The  deeds  which,  more  than  their  own  awful  miem 
Make  every  crag  of  Switzerland  sublime  ! 
And  say  to  those  whose  feeble  souls  would  lean 
Not  on  themselves,  but  on  some  outstretched  hand,, 
That  once  a  single  mind  sufficed  to  quell 
The  malice  of  a  tyrant ;  let  them  know 
That  each  may  crowd  in  every  well-aimed  blow,, 
Not  the  poor  strength  alone  of  arm  and  brand 
But  the  whole  spirit  of  a  mighty  land ! 

Bid  Liberty  rejoice !     Aye  though  its  day 
Be  far  or  near,  these  clouds  shall  yet  be  red 


THE  GUEKILLA.  71 

"With  the  large  promise  of  the  coming  ray. 

Meanwhile, 

With  that  calm  courage  which  can  smile 
Amid  the  terrors  of  the  wildest  fray, 
Let  us  among  the  charms  of  Art  awhile 

Fleet  the  deep  gloom  away ; 
Nor  yet  forget  that  011  each  hand  and  head 
Eest  the  dear  rights,  for  which  we  fight  and  pray. 

SOUTHEBN  ILIAJSTKATED  NEWS. 


ife 


BY   S.    TEACKLE   WALLIS,    BALTEMORJE. 

AWAKE  !  and  to  horse  my  brothers, 
For  the  dawn  is  glimmering  grey, 

And  hark  !  in  the  crackling  brushwood, 
There  are  feet  that  tread  this  way. 

"Who  cometh?'1  "A  friend."   "  What  tidings  ?" 

"  Oh  God  !  I  sicken  to  tell, 
For  the  earth  seems  earth  no  longer, 
And  its  sights  are  the  sights  of  hell. 

There's  rapine  and  fire  and  slaughter, 
From  the  mountain  down  to  the  shore, 

There's  blood  on  the  trampled  harvest, 
And  blood  on  the  homestead  floor. 

From  the  far  off  conquered  cities, 
Comes  the  voice  of  a  stifled  wail, 

And  the  shrieks  and  moans  of  the  homeless 
King  like  the  dirge  of  a  gale. 


72  THE      SOUTHERN  AMAEANTH. 

I  have  seen  from  the  smoking  village, 
Our  mothers  and  daughters  fly, 

I've  seen  where  the  little  children, 
Sank  down  in  the  furrows  to  die. 

On  the  banks  of  the  battle-stained  river, 
I  stood  as  the  moonlight  shone, 

And  it  glared  on  the  face  of  my  brother, 
As  the  sad  wave  swept  him  on. 

Where  my  home  was  glad,  are  ashes, 
And  horror  and  shame  had  been  there, 

For  I  found  on  the  fallen  linten, 
This  tress  of  my  wife's  torn  hair. 

They  are  turning  the  slave  upon  us, 

And  with  more  than  the  fiend's  worst  art, 

Have  uncovered  the  fires  of  the  savage, 
That  slept  in  his  untaught  heart. 

The  ties  to  our  hearts  that  bound  him, 
They  have  rent  with  curses  away, 

And  madden  him  in  their  madness, 
To  be  almost  as  brutal  as  they. 

With  halter  and  torch  and  Bible, 

And  hymns  to  the  sound  of  the  drum, 

They  preach  the  gospel  of  murder, 
And  pray  for  lust's  kingdom  to  come. 

To  saddle  !  my  brothers!  to  saddle ! 

Look  up  to  the  rising  sun, 
And  ask  of  the  God  who  shines  there, 

Whether  deeds  like  these  shall  be  done. 


THE    GUERILLA. 

"Whither  the  vandal  cometh, 

Press  home  to  his  heart  with  your  steel  ; 
And  where'er  at  his  bosom  ye  cannot, 

Like  the  serpent,  go  strike  at  his  heel. 

Through  thicket  and  wood  go  hunt  him, 
Creep  up  to  his  camp-fire  side, 

And  let  ten  of  his  corpses  blacken, 
Where  one  of  our  brothers  hath  died. 

In  his  fainting,  foot-sore  marches, 
In  his  flight  from  the  stricken  fray, 

In  the  snare  of  the  lonely  ambush, 
The  debts  that  we  owe  him,  pay. 

In  God's  hands  alone  is  vengeance, 
But  he  strikes  with  the  hands  of  men ; 

And  his  blight  would  wither  our  manhood, 
If  we  smote  not  the  smiter  again. 

By  the  graves  where  our  fathers  slumber, 
By  the  shrines  where  our  mothers  prayed, 

By  our  homes  and  hopes  of  freedom, 
Let  every  man  swear  by  his  blade, 

That  he  will  not  sheathe  nor  stay  it, 

Till  from  point  to  hilt  it  glow 
With  the  flush  of  Almighty  justice, 

In  the  blood  of  the  cruel  foe." 

They  swore  ;  and  the  answering  sunlight 
Leapt  from  their  lifted  swords, 

And  the  hate  in  their  hearts  made  echo, 
To  the  wrath  of  their  burning  words. 

CHA.TTAKTOOGA  EEBEL. 
4 


73 


74  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


A  POEM  FOE  THEN  AND  NOW. 
BY  JOHN  K.  THOMPSON,  VIHGINIA. 

WHO  talks  of  coercion  ?  who  dares  to  deny 

A  resolute  people  the  right  to  be  free  ? 
Let  him  blot  out  forever  one  star  from  the  sky, 

Or  curb  with  his  fetter  one  wave  of  the  sea ! 

Who  prates  of  Coercion  ?  can  love  be  restored 
To  bosoms  where  only  resentment  may  dwell  ? 

Can  peace  upon  earth  be  proclaimed  by  the  swordr 
Or  good  will  among  men  be  established  by  shell  ? 

Shame  !  shame  ! — that  the  statesman  and  trickster  for 
sooth, 

Should  have  for  a  crisis  no  other  resource 
Beneath  the  fair  day-spring  of  light  and  of  truth, 

Than  the  old  brutumfulmen  of  tyranny, — force ! 

Prom  the  holes  where  fraud,  falsehood,  and  hate  slink 

away ; 

From  the  crypt  in  which  error  lies  buried  in  chains  f 
This  foul  apparition  stalks  forth  to  the  day, 

And  would  ravage  the  land  which  his  presence  pro 
fanes. 

Could  you  conquer  us,  Men   of  the  North — could  you 

bring 
Desolation  and  death  on  our  homes  as  a  flood — 


COERCION.  75 

Can  yon  hope  the  pure  lily,  Affection,  will  spring 
From  ashes  all  reeking  and  sodden  with  blood  ? 

Could  you  bind  us  as  villeins  and  serfs — know  ye  not 
What  fierce,  sullen  hatred  lurks  under  the  scar  ? 

How  loyal  to  Hapsburg  is  Venice,  I  wot, 
How  dearly  the  Pole  loves  his  father,  the  Czar  ! 

But  'twere  well  to  remember  this  land  of  the  sun 

Is  a  Nutrix  leonum,  and  suckles  a  race 
Strong  armed,  lion-hearted,  and  banded  as  one 

Who  brook  not  oppression  and  know  not  disgrace- 

And  well  may  the  schemers  in  office  beware 
The  swift  retribution  that  waits  upon  crime, 

When  the  lion,  KESISTAKCE,  shall  leap  from  his  lair,. 
With  a  fury  that  renders  his  vengeance  sublime. 

Once,  Men  of  the  North,  we  were  brothers,  and  still, 
Though  brothers  no  more,  we  would  gladly  be  friends  ; 

Nor  join  in  a  conflict  accursed,  that  must  fill 
With  ruin  the  country  on  which  it  descends. 

But,  if  smitten  with  blindness,  and  mad  with  the  rage- 
The  gods  gave  to  all  whom  they  wished  to  destroy, 

You  would  act  a  new  Iliad,  to  darken  the  age 
With  horrors  beyond  what  is  told  us  of  Troy — 

If,  deaf  as  the  adder  itself  to  the  cries, 

When  Wisdom,  Humanity,  Justice  implore, 
You  would  have  our  proud  eagle  to  feed  on  the  eyes 

Of  those  who  have  taught  him  so  grandly  to  soar— 
If  there  be  to  your  malice  no  limit  imposed, 

And  you  purpose  hereafter  to  rule  with  the  rod,. 


76  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

The  men  upon  whom  you  already  have  closed 
Our  goodly  domain  and  the  temples  of  God : 

To  the  breeze  then  your  banner  dishonored  unfold. 
And,  at  once,  let  the  tocsin  be  sounded  afar ; 

We  greet  you,  as  greeted  the  Swiss,  Charles  the  Bold — 
With  a  farewell  to  peace,  and  a  welcome  to  war ! 

For  the  courage  that  clings  to  our  soil,  ever  bright, 
Shall  catch  inspiration  from  turf  and  from  tide  ; 

Our  sons  unappalled  shall  go  forth  to  the  fight, 

With  the  smile  of  the  fair  and  pure  kiss  of  the  bride ; 

And  the  bugle  its  echoes  shall  send  through  the  past, 
In  the  trenches  of  Yorktown,  to  waken  the  slain ; 

While  the  sod  of  Bang's  Mountain  shall  heave  at  the 

blast, 
And  give  up  its  heroes  to  glory  again. 


BY  ST.  GEORGE  TUCKER,  VIRGINIA. 


OH,  say,  can  you  see  through  the  gloom  and  the  storm, 
More  bright  for  the  darkness,  that  pure  constellation  ? 
Like  the  symbol  of  love  and  redemption  its  form, 
As  it  points  to  the  haven  of  hope  for  the  nation. 
How  radiant  each  star,  as  the  beacon  afar, 
Oiving  promise  of  peace  or  assurance  of  war  ! 
"Tis  the  Cross  of  the  South,  which  shall  ever  remain, 
To  light  us  to  freedom  and  glory  again  ! 


THE   SOUTHERN   CROSS.  77 

How  peaceful  and  blest  was  America's  soil 
Till  betrayed  by  the  guile  of  the  Puritan  demon, 
Which  lurks  under  virtue  and  springs  from  its  coil 
To  fasten  its  fangs  in  the  life  blood  of  freemen. 
Then  boldly  appeal  to  each  heart  that  can  feel, 
And  crush  the  foul  viper  'neath  Liberty's  heel ! 
And  the  Cross  of  the  South,  shall  in  triumph  remain 
To  light  us  to  freedom  and  glory  again ! 

'Tis  the  emblem  of  peace,  'tis  the  day-star  of  hope, 
Like  the  sacred  Labarum  that  guided  the  Roman  ; 
From  the  shore  of  the  Gulf  to  the  Delaware's  slope 
'Tis  the  trust  of  the  free  and  the  terror  of  foeman. 
Fling  its  folds  to  the  air,  while  we  loudly  declare 
The  rights  we  demand  or  the  deeds  that  we  dare ! 
While  the  Cross  of  the  South  shall  in  triumph  remaic 
To  light  us  to  freedom  and  glory  again  ! 

And  if  peace  should  be  hopeless  and  justice  denied, 
And  war's  bloody  vulture  should  flap  its  black  pinions, 
Then  gladly  to  arms  1  while  we  hurl,  in  our  pride, 
Defiance  to  tyrants  and  death  to  their  minions. 
With  our  front  to  the  field,  swearing  never  to  yield, 
Or  return,  like  the  Spartans,  in  death  on  our  shield  ! 
And  the  Cross  of  the  South  shall  triumphantly  wave 
As  the  flag  of  the  free,  or  the  pall  of  the  brave. 


78  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


BY  MAUEICE   BELL. 


IN  the  dusk  of  the  forest  shade 

A  sallow  and  dusty  group  reclined  ; 
Gallops  a  horseman  up  the  glade — 

"  Where  will  I  your  leader  find  ? 
Tidings  I  bring  from  the  morning's  scout — 

I've  borne  them  o'er  mound  and  moor  and  fen." 
"  Well,  sir.  stay  not  hereabout, 

Here  are  only  a  few  of  'the  men/ 

Here  no  collar  has  bar  or  star, 

No  rich  lacing  adorns  the  sleeve ; 
Further  on  our  officers  are, 

Let  them  your  report  receive. 
Higher  up,  on  the  hill  up  there, 

Overlooking  this  shady  glen, 
There  are  their  quarters — don't  stop  here, 

We  are  only  some  of  '  the  men.' 

Yet  stay,  courier,  if  you  bear 

Tidings  that  a  fight  is  near  ; 
Tell  them  we're  ready,  and  that  where 

They  wish  us  to  be  we'll  soon  appear ; 
Tell  them  only  to  let  us  know 

Where  to  form  our  ranks  and  when ; 
And  we'll  teach  the  vaunting  foe 

That  they've  met  with  some  of  *  the  men.' 


WOMAN'S  WAIL  MISSION.  79 

We're  the  men,  though  our  clothes  are  worn — 

"We're  the  men,  though  we  wear  no  lace — 
We're  the  men,  who  the  foe  hath  torn, 

And  scattered  their  ranks  in  dire  disgrace  ; 
We're  the  men  who  have  triumphed  before — 

We're  the  men  who  will  triumph  again  : 
For  the  dust  and  the  smoke  and  the  cannon's  roar 

And  the  clashing  bayonets — '  we're  the  men.' 

Ye  who  sneer  at  the  battle-scars, 

Of  garments  faded  and  soiled  and  bare, 
Yet  who  have  for  the  '  stars  and  bars ' 

Praise  and  homage  and  dainty  fare  ; 
Mock  the  wearers  and  pass  them  on, 

Refuse  them  kindly  word — and  then 
Know  if  your  freedom  is  ever  won 

By  human  agents — these  are  the  men  /" 


FOLD  away  all  your  bright  tinted  dresses, 

Turn  the  key  on  your  jewels  to-day, 
And  the  wealth  of  your  tendril  like  tresses 

Braid  back,  in  a  serious  way  : 
.No  more  delicate  gloves — no  more  laces, 

No  more  trifling  in  boudoir  and  bower ; 
But  come  with  your  souls  in  your  faces — 

To  meet  the  stern  needs  of  the  hour  ! 

Look  around !     By  the  torchlight  unsteady, 
The  dead  and  the  dying  seem  one. 


80  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

What !  paling  and  trembling  already, 
Before  your  dear  mission's  begun  ? 

These  wounds  are  more  precious  than  ghastly ; 
Fame  presses  her  lips  to  each  scar, 

As  she  chaunts  of  a  glory  which  vastly 
Transcends  all  the  horrors  of  war. 

Pause  here  by  this  bedside — how  mellow 

The  light  showers  down  on  that  brow  ! 
Such  a  brave,  brawny  visage  ! — Poor  fellow ! 

Some  homestead  is  missing  him  now. 
Some  wife  shades  her  eyes  in  the  clearing, 

Some  mother  sits  moaning,  distressed — 
While  the  loved  one  lies  faint,  but  unfearing. 

With  the  enemy's  ball  in  his  breast 

Here's  another ;  a  lad — a  mere  stripling — 

Picked  up  from  the  field,  almost  dead ; 
With  the  blood  through  his  sunny  hair  rippling 

From  a  horrible  gash  in  the  head. 
They  say  he  was  first  in  the  action, 

Gray-hearted,  quick-handed,  and  witty ; 
He  fought  till  he  fell  with  exhaustion, 

At  the  gates  of  our  fair  Southern  city. 

Fought  and  fell  'neath  the  guns  of  that  city, 

With  a  spirit  transcending  his  years. 
Lift  him  up  in  your  large-hearted  pity 

And  touch  his  pale  lips  with  your  tears. 
Touch  him  gently — most  sacred  the  duty 

Of  dressing  that  poor  shattered  hand  1 
God  spare  him  to  rise  in  his  beauty, 

And  battle  once  more  for  the  land  I 


WOMAN'S  WAR  MISSION.  81 

Who  groaned  ?     What  a  passionate  murmur — 

"  In  thy  mercy  0  God  I  let  me  die  /" 
Ha !  surgeon,  your  hand  must  be  firmer, 

That  grapeshot  has  shattered  his  thigh. 
Fling  the  light  on  those  poor,  furrowed  features  \ 

Grey  haired  and  unknown,  bless  the  brother  I 
0  God  !  that  one  of  Thy  creatures 

Should  e'er  work  such  woe  on  another  I 

Wipe  the  sweat  from  his  brow  with  your  kerchief  f 

Let  the  stained,  tattered  collar  go  wide. 
See !  he  stretches  out  blindly  to  search  if 

The  surgeon  still  stands  at  his  side. 
"  My  son's  over  yonder  !  he's  wounded — 

Oh  I  this  ball  that  has  broken  my  thigh  /" 
And  again  he  burst  out,  all  a-tremble, 

"  In  thy  mercy,  O  God  !  let  me  die  I" 

Pass  on  !     It  is  useless  to  linger 

While  others  are  claiming  your  care  ^ 
There  is  need  of  your  delicate  finger, 

For  your  womanly  sympathy,  there  ! — 
There  are  sick  ones  athirst  for  caressing — 

There  are  dying  ones  raving  of  home — 
There  are  wounds  to  be  bound  with  a  blessing — 

And  shrouds  to  make  ready  for  some. 

They  have  gathered  about  you  the  harvest 

Of  death,  in  its  ghastliest  view  ; 
The  nearest  as  well  as  the  farthest 

Is  here  with  the  traitor  and  true  I 
And  crowned  with  your  beautiful  patience, 

Made  sunny  with  love  at  the  heart, 
You  must  balsam  the  wounds  of  a  nation, 

Nor  falter,  nor  shrink  from  your  part  I 


82  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Up  and  down  through  the  wards,  where  the  fever 

Stalks  noisome,  and  gaunt  and  impure, 
You  must  go  with  your  steadfast  endeavor 

To  comfort,  to  counsel,  to  cure  ! 
I  grant  that  the  task's  superhuman, 

But  strength  will  be  given  to  you 
To  do  for  those  dear  ones  what  woman 

Alone,  in  her  pity  can  do. 

And  the  lips  of  the  mothers  will  bless  you 

As  angels  sweet  visaged  and  pale  ! 
And  the  little  ones  run  to  caress  you, 

While  the  wives  and  the  sisters  cry  "  Hail !" 
But  e'en  if  you  drop  down  unheeded, 

"What  matter  ?  Grod's  ways  are  the  best ; 

You've  poured  out  your  life  where  'twas  needed, 
And  He  will  take  care  of  the  rest ! 

CHAELESTON  COURIER. 


BY  JAMES  E.   RANDALL. 

ABM  yourselves  and  be  valiant  men,  and  see  that  ye  be  in  readiness 
against  the  morning,  that  ye  may  fight  with  these  nations  that 
assembled  against  us,  to  destroy  us  and  our  sanctuary. 

For  it  is  better  for  us  to  die  in  battle  than  to  behold  the  calamities 
of  our  people  and  our  sanctuary.  MACCABEES  i. 

BROTHER  !  the  thunder  cloud  is  black, 
And  the  wail  of  the  South  rings  forth ; 


BATTLE  CRY  OF  THE  SOUTH.  83 

"Will  ye  cringe  to  the  hot  tornado's  rack, 

And  the  vampires  of  the  North  ? 
Strike !  ye  can  win  a  martyr's  goal, 

Strike  !  with  a  ruthless  hand — 
Strike  !  with  the  vengeance  of  the  soul, 
For  your  bright  beleaguered  land  ! 

To  arms !  to  arms  !  for  the  South  needs  help, 

And  a  craven  is  he  who  flees — • 
For  ye  have  the  sword  of  the  Lion's  Whelp  * 
And  the  God  of  the  Maccabees  ! 

Arise !  though  the  stars  have  a  rugged  glare, 

And  the  moon  has  a  wrath-blurred  crown — 
Brothers  !  a  blessing  is  ambushed  there 

In  the  cliffs  of  the  Father's  frown  ; 
Arise  !  ye  are  worthy  the  wondrous  light 

Which  the  Sun  of  Justice  gives — 
In  the  cares  and  sepulchres  of  night 
Jehovah  the  Lord  King  lives ! 

To  arms !  to  arms  !  for  the  South  needs  help, 

And  a  craven  is  he  who  flees — 
For  ye  have  the  sword  of  the  Lion's  Whelp 
And  the  God  of  the  Maccabees  ! 

Think  of  the  dead  by  the  Tennessee, 

In  their  frozen  shrouds  of  gore — 
Think  of  the  mothers  who  shall  see 

Those  darling  eyes  no  more ! 
But  better  are  they  in  a  hero  grave 

Than  the  serfs  of  time  and  breath, 
For  they  are  the  children  of  the  brave, 

And  the  cherubim  of  death  ! 

*  The  surname  of  the  great  Maccabees. 


84  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  for  the  South  needs  helpr 
And  a  craven  is  he  who  flees — 

For  ye  have  the  sword  of  the  Lion's  Whelp 
And  the  God  of  the  Maccabees 

Better  the  charnels  of  the  West, 

And  a  hecatomb  of  lives, 
Than  the  foul  invader  as  a  guest 

'Mid  your  sisters  and  your  wives — 
But  a  spirit  lurketh  in  every  maid, 

Though,  brothers,  ye  should  quail, 
To  sharpen  a  Judith's  lurid  blade, 
And  the  livid  spike  of  Jael ! 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  for  the  South  needs  help,. 

And  a  craven  is  he  who  flees — 
For  ye  have  the  sword  of  the  Lion's  Whelp 
And  the  God  of  the  Maccabees  ! 

Brothers  !  I  see  you  tramping  by, 

With  the  gladiator  gaze, 
And  your  shout  is  the  Macedonian  cry 

Of  the  old  heroic  days  ! 
March  on !  with  trumpet  and  with  drum, 

With  rifle,  pike,  and  dart, 
And  die — if  even  death  must  come — 
Upon  your  country's  heart ! 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  for  the  South  needs  help,, 

And  a  craven  is  he  who  flees — 
For  ye  have  the  sword  of  the  Lion's  Whelp 
And  the  God  of  the  Maccabees  ! 

Brothers  !  the  thunder-cloud  is  black, 
And  the  wail  of  the  South  wings  forth  ; 


OUE   FAITH   IN  SIXTY-ONE.  85 

Will  ye  cringe  to  the  hot  tornado's  rack 

And  the  vampires  of  the  North  ? 
:Strike  I  ye  can  win  a  -martyr's  goal, 

Strike  !  with  a  ruthless  hand — 
.'Strike  !  with  the  vengeance  of  the  soul 
For  your  bright  beleaguered  land ! 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  for  the  South  needs  help, 

And  a  craven  is  he  who  flees — 
For  ye  have  the  sword  of  the  Lion's  Whelp 
And  the  God  of  the  Maccabees  ! 


BY  A.    J.    KEQUIEB,    ALABAMA. 

"'THAT  governments  are  instituted  among  men,  deriving  the  just 
^powers  from  the  consent  of  the  governed  :  that  whenever  any  form 
•of  government  becomes  destructive  to  these  ends,  it  is  the  right  of 
the  people  to  alter  or  abolish  it,  and  to  institute  a  new  government, 
laying  its  foundation  on  such  principles,  and  organizing  its  powers 
in  such  form,  as  to  them  shall  seem  most  likely  to  effect  their  safety 
c:and  happiness."  DECLARATION  or  INDEPENDENCE,  JULY  4th,  1776. 

NOT  yet  one  hundred  years  have  flown, 

Since  on  this  very  spot, 
The  subjects  of  a  sovereign  throne — 

Liege  masters  of  their  lot — 

'This  high  decree  spread  o'er  the  sea, 
From  council-bcard  and  tent, 


86  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH* 

"  No  earthly  power  can  rule  the  free 
But  by  their  own  consent !" 

For  this  they  fought  as  Saxons  fight, 

On  bloody  fields  and  long — 
Themselves,  the  champions  of  the  ri 

And  judges  of  the  wrong ; 
For  this  their  stainless  knightood  wore 

The  branded  rebel's  name, 
Until  the  starry  cross  they  bore, 

Set  all  the  skies  aflame  ! 

And  States  coequal  and  distinct 

Outshone  the  western  sun, 
By  one  great  charter  interlinked — 

Not  blended  into  one  ; 
Whose  graven  key  that  high  decree. 

The  grand  inscription  lent, 
"  No  earthly  power  can  rule  the  free,. 

But  by  their  own  consent !" 

Oh,  sordid  age !     Oh,  ruthless  rage  I 

Oh,  sacrilegious  wrong ! 
A  deed  to  blast  the  record  page, 

And  snap  the  strings  of  song  ; 
In  that  great  charter's  name,  a  band 

By  grovelling  greed  enticed, 
Whose  warrant  is  a  grasping  hand 

Of  deeds  without  a  Christ — 

States  that  have  trampled  every  pledge 

Its  crystal  code  contains, 
Now  give  their  swords  a  keener  edge,, 


OUK  FAITH  IN   SIXTY-ONE.  87 

To  harness  it  with,  chains — 
To  make  a  bond  of  brotherhood 

The  sanction  and  the  seal, 
By  which  to  arm  a  rabble  brood 

With  fratricidal  steel. 

"Who  conscious  that  their  cause  is  black, 

In  puling  prose  and  rhyme, 
Talk  hatefully  of  love,  and  tack 

Hypocrisy  to  crime ; 
Who  smile  and  smite,  engross  the  gorge 

Or  impotently  frown  ; 
And  call  us  "  rebels  "  with  King  George, 

As  if  they  wore  his  crown ! 

Most  venal  of  a  venal  race, 

Who  think  you  cheat  the  sky 
With  every  pharisaic  face 

And  simulated  lie ; 
Bound  Freedom's  lair,  with  weapons  bare, 

We  greet  the  light  divine 
Of  those  who  throned  the  Goddess  there 

And  yet  inspire  the  shrine  ! 

Our  loved  one's  graves  are  at  our  feet, 

Their  homesteads  at  our  back — 
No  belted  Southron  can  retreat — 

With  women  on  his  track  ; 
Peal,  bannered  host,  the  proud  decree 

Which  from  our  fathers  went,  [ 

"  No  earthly  power  can  rule  the  free  ! 

But  by  their  own  consent  1" 


THE   SOUTHEKN  AMARANTH. 


BY  JOHN  W.  OVEKALL,  LOUISIANA. 

YE  spirits  of  the  glorious  dead  ! 

Ye  watchers  of  the  sky  ! 
Who  sought  the  patriot's  crimson  bed, 

With  holy  trust  and  high. 
Come,  lend  your  inspiration  now, 

Come  fire  each  Southern  son, 
Who  nobly  fights  for  freemen's  rights, 

And  shouts  for  sixty-one. 

Come  teach  them  how,  on  hill  and  glade, 

Quick  leaping  from  your  side, 
The  lightning  flash  of  sabres  made 

A  red  and  flowing  tide. 
How  well  ye  fought,  how  bravely  fell, 

Beneath  our  burning  sun ; 
And  let  the  lyre  in  strains  of  fire, 

So  speak  of  sixty-one. 

There's  many  a  grave  in  all  the  land, 

And  many  a  crucifix, 
Which  tells  how  that  heroic  band, 

Stood  firm  in  seventy-six. 
Ye  heroes  of  the  deathless  past, 

Your  glorious  race  is  run, 
But  from  your  dust  springs  freedom's  trust, 

And  blows  for  sixty-one. 


A   BALLAD    F'Jll   THE   YOUNG    SOUTH.  89 

We  build  our  altars  where  you  lie, 

On  many  a  verdant  sod, 
"With  sabres  pointing  to  the  sky, 

And  sanctified  to  God. 
The  smoke  shall  rise  from  every  pile, 

Till  freedom's  cause  is  won, 
And  every  mouth  throughout  the  South 

Shall  shout  for  sixty-one  ! 


BY   JOSEPH  BRENNAN,   NEW   ORLEANS. 
I. 

MEN  of  the  South !     Our  foes  are  up 

In  fierce  and  grim  array  ; 
Their  sable  banner  laps  the  air — 

An  insult  to  the  day  ! 
The  saints  of  Cromwell  rise  again, 

In  sanctimonious  hordes, 
Hiding  behind  the  garb  of  peace 

A  million  ruthless  swords. 
From  North,  and  East,  and  West,  they  seek 

The  same  disastrous  goal, 
With  CHRIST  upon  the  lying  lip, 

And  Satan  in  the  soul ! 
Mocking,  with  ancient  shibboleth, 

All  wise  and  just  restraints  : 


90  THE   SOUTHEEN  AMARANTH. 

"  To  saints  of  Heaven  was  empire  given, 
And  WE,  alone,  are  saints  /" 


II. 

A  preacher  to  the  pulpit  comes 

And  calls  upon  the  crowd, 
For  Southern  creeds  and  Southern  hopes 

To  weave  a  bloody  shroud. 
Beside  the  prayer-book,  on  his  desk, 

The  bullet-mould  is  seen  ; 
And  near  the  Bible's  golden  clasp, 

The  dagger's  stately  sheen  ; 
The  simple  tale  of  Bethlehem 

No  more  is  fondly  told, 
For  every  priestly  surplice  drags 

Too  heavily  with  gold  ; 
The  blessed  Cross  of  Calvary 

Becomes  a  sign  of  Baal, 
Like  that  which  played  when  chieftains  raised 

The  clansmen  of  the  Gael ! 


in. 

Hark  to  the  howling  demagogues — 

A  fierce  and  ravenous  pack — 
With  nostrils  prone,  and  bark  and  bay, 

That  close  upon  our  track : 
"  Down  with  the  laws  our  fathers  made ! 

They  bind  our  hearts  no  more ; 
Down  with  the  stately  edifice, 

Cemented  with  their  gore  ! 
Forget  the  legends  of  our  race — 

Efface  each  wise  decree — 


A  BALLAD  FOR  THE  YOUNG  SOUTH.        91 

Americans  must  kneel  as  slaves, 

Till  Africans  are  free  ! 
Out  on  the  mere  Caucasian  blood 

Of  Teuton,  Celt,  or  Gaul ! 
The  stream  that  springs  from  Niger's  source 

Must  triumph  over  all !" 

IV. 

So  speaks  a  solemn  senator 

Within  those  halls  to-day, 
That  echoed,  erst,  the  thunder-burst 

Of  WEBSTER  and  of  CLAY  ! 
Look  North,  look  East,  look  West — the  scene 

Is  blackening  all  around  ; 
The  negro  cordon,  year  by  year, 

Is  fast  and  faster  bound  ; 
The  black  line  crossed — the  sable  flag 

Surrounded  by  a  host — 
Our  outpost  forced,  our  sentinels 

Asleep  upon  their  post ; 
Our  brethren's  life-blood  flowing  free, 

To  stain  the  Kansas  soil — 
And  shed  in  vain,  while  pious  thieves 

Are  fattening  on  our  toil ! 
Look  North — look  West — the  ominous  sky 

Is  starless,  moonless,  black, 
And  from  the  East  comes  hurrying  up 

A  sweeping  thunder-rack ! 

V. 

Men  of  the  South !     Ye  have  no  kin 
With  fanatics,  or  fools ; 


92  THE    SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

Ye  are  not  bound  by  breed,  or  birth, 

To  Massachusetts  rules ! 
A  hundred  nations  gave  their  blood 

To  feed  these  healthful  springs, 
Which  bear  the  seed  of  Jacques  Bonliomme, 

With  those  of  Bourbon  kings. 
The  Danish  pluck  and  sailor  craft — 

The  Huguenotic  will — 
The  Norman  grace  and  chivalry — 

The  German  steady  skill — 
The  fiery  Celt's  impassioned  thought 

Inspire  the  Southron's  heart, 
Which  has  no  room  for  bigot-gloom, 

Or  pious  plunder's  art ! 


YI. 

Sons  of  the  brave  !     The  time  has  come 

To  bow  the  haughty  crest, 
Or  stand  alone,  despite  the  threats 

Of  North,  or  East,  or  West ! 
The  hour  has  come  for  manly  deeds, 

And  not  for  puling  words  ; 
The  place  is  past  for  platform  prate — 

It  is  the  time  for  swords ! 
Now,  by  the  fame  of  JOHN  CALHOUN, 

To  honest  truth  be  true  ! 
And  by  old  JACKSON'S  iron  will, 

Now  do  what  ye  can  do  ! 
By  all  ye  love — by  all  ye  hope — 

Be  resolute  and  proud ; 
And  make  your  flag  a  symbol  high 

Of  triumph,  or  a  shroud  ! 


THEEE  IS  LIFE  IN  THE  OLD  LAND  YET.  93 

VII. 

Men  of  the  South  !     Look  up— behold 

The  deep  and  sullen  gloom, 
That  darkles  o'er  our  sunny  land 

With  thunder  in  its  womb  ! 
Are  ye  so  blind  ye  cannot  see 

The  omens  in  the  sky  ? 
Are  ye  so  deaf  ye  cannot  hear 

The  tramp  of  foemen  nigh  ? 
Are  ye  so  dull  ye  will  endure 

The  whips  and  scorn  of  men, 
Who  wear  the  heart  of  TITUS  GATES 

Beneath  the  face  of  PENN  ? 
Never,  I  ween  !  and  foot  to  foot, 

Ye  now  will  gladly  stand 
For  land  and  life,  for  child  and  wife, 

With  naked  steel  in  hand ! 


BY  JAMES  R.  RANDALL,  MARYLAND. 

BY  blue  Patapsco's  billowy  dash 

The  tyrant's  war-shout  comes, 
Along  with  the  cymbal's  fitful  flash, 

And  the  growl  of  his  sullen  drums. 
We  hear  it !  we  heed  it  with  vengeful  thrills, 


THE   SOUTHERN    AMARANTH. 

And  we  shall  not  forgive  or  forget, — 
There's  faith  in  the  streams,  there's  hope  in 

the  hills — 
"  There  is  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet !" 

Minions  !  we  sleep,  but  we  are  not  dead ; 

We  are  crushed,  we  are  scourged,  we  are  scarred ; 
We  crouch — 'tis  to  welcome  the  triumph-tread 

Of  peerless  Beauregard! 
Then  woe  to  your  vile  polluting  horde, 

When  the  Southern  braves  are  met, 
There's  faith  in  the  victor's  stainless  sword — 

"  There  is  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet !" 

Bigots  !    ye  quell  not  the  valiant  mind, 

With  the  clank  of  an  iron  chain  ; 
The  spirit  of  Freedom  sings  in  the  wind, 

O'er  Merryman,  Thomas  and  Kane  ! 
And  we — though  we  smile  not — are  not  thralls ; 

We  are  piling  a  gory  debt ; 
E'en  down  by  McHenry's  dungeon  walls, 

"  There  is  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet  I" 

Our  women  have  hung  their  harps  away, 

And  they  scowl  on  your  brutal  bands, 
While  the  nimble  poignard  dares  the  day, 

In  their  dear,  defiant  hands ; 
They  will  strip  their  tresses  to  string  our  bows, 

Ere  the  Northern  sun  is  set, 
There  is  faith  in  their  unavenged  woes — 

"  There  is  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet !" 

There's  life,  though  it  throbbeth  in  silent  veins, 
'Tis  vocal  without  noise  ; 


THE   SCOUT.  95 

It  gushed  o'er  Manassas'  gory  plains, 

In  the  blood  of  the  Maryland  boys  ! 
That  blood  shall  cry  aloud,  and  rise 

With  an  everlasting  threat, 
By  the  death  of  the  brave !  by  the  God  in  the 
skies ! — 

"  There  is  life  in  the  Old  Land  yet  I" 


BY  SANS   SOTJCI. 


CHEEPING  stealthily  through  the  grass, 
Peering  around  on  hands  and  knees, 
To  take  him  down,  should  an  enemy  pass, 
He  glides  among  the  trees. 
One  inch  higher, 
And  glint  of  fire, 
From  yon  long  glittering  tube,  half  peeping 

Out  of  that  low  and  ragged  bush, 
"Would  lay  the  scout  forever  sleeping, 
And  spoil  the  evening's  holy  hush. 
He  sees  the  shine 
Of  the  foe's  carbine ; 
He  knows  he  has  met  a  hostile  ranger, 

And  buries  his  body  deeper  still, 
Down  in  the  grass,  to  avoid  the  danger 
Of  being  dosed  with  a  leaden  pill 
He  throws  his  eye 
On  a  tree  near  by, 


96  THE    SOUTHERN   AXARANTH. 

If  he  reaches  that,  he  is  not  afraid  ; 
So  he  creeps  till  he  lies  in  the  ample  shade,. 
And  now  the  rifles  of  North  and  South, 
Are  gaping  into  each  other's  mouth, 
Now  the  game  begins ; 
"Pis  for  life — who  wins  ? 
And  both  are  wary,  and  both  are  firm 

To  give  no  chance  to  the  other's  skill  j 
So  wriggling  like  a  tortured  worm, 
Each  chooses  the  easiest  way  to  kill ; 
Crack  !  there's  a  shot 
From  the  rebel  spot ; 
The  other  starts  from  his  bended  knee, 

And  leaps  out  into  the  open  space  ; 
He  is  mad  to  leave  the  shade  of  the  tree — 
There  was  room  enough  to  shoot  in  his  place 
He  raises  the  gun — 
It  is  like  a  tun 

The  way  he  lifts  it.     What  ails  the  man  ? 
He  aims  it ;  but  it  droops  from  its  aim ; 
There's  not  as  much  as  a  flash  in  the  pan — 
It  looks  as  if  he  were  losing  game. 
His  eyes  grow  wild, 
Like  a  frightened  child ; 
He  tries  to  steady  himself  on  his  gun, 

But  misses  the  prop,  and  he  falls  like  lead, 
Just  where  a  ray  of  the  rising  sun 

Falls  on  his  face,  and  shows  him  dead/ 
NEW  YOKE  METKOPOUTAN  KECORD. 


ON  TO  EICHMOND. 


to  m 


AFTER   SOUTHEYS    "  MAECH   TO   MOSCOW. 
BY  JOHN  B.    THOMPSON,    OF  VIEGINIA. 

MAJOE  GENEEAL  SCOTT 

An  order  had  got 
To  push  on  the  column  to  Eichmond ; 

For  loudly  went  forth, 

From  all  parts  of  the  North, 
The  cry  that  an  end  of  the  war  must  be  made 
In  time  for  the  regular  yearly  Fall  Trade  : 
Mr.  Greeley  spoke  freely  about  the  delay, 
The  Yankees  "  to  hum  "  were  all  hot  for  the  fray  ; 

The  chivalrous  Grow, 

Declared  they  were  slow, — 

And  therefore  the  order 

To  march  from  the  border 
And  make  an  excursion  to  Eichmond. 

Major  General  Scott 

Most  likely  was  not 
Very  loth  to  obey  this  instruction,  I  wot ; 

In  his  private  opinion 

The  Ancient  Dominion 
Deserved  to  be  pillaged,  her  sons  to  be  shot, 
And  the  reason  is  easily  noted ; 
Though  this  part  of  the  earth 
Had  given  him  birth, 
And  medals  and  swords, 
Inscribed  in  fine  words, 


98  THE   SOUTHEEN  AMAEA3TIL 

It  never  for  Winfield  had  voted. 

Besides,  you  must  know,  that  our  First  of  Commanders 
Had  sworn  quite  as  hard  as  the  Army  in  Flanders, 
With  his  finest  of  armies  and  proudest  of  navies, 
To  wreak  his  old  grudge  against  Jefferson  Davis. 
Then,  "Forward  the  column,"  he  said  to  McDowell ; 

And  the  Zouaves  with  a  shout, 

Most  fiercely  cried  out, 

"  To  Eichmond  or  h — 11 !"  (I  omit  here  the  vowel,) 
And  Winfield  he  ordered  his  carriage  and  four, 
A  dashing  turnout,  to  be  brought  to  the  door, 
For  a  pleasant  excursion  to  Kichmond. 

Major  General  Scott 

Had  there  on  the  spot 

A  splendid  array 

To  plunder  and  slay  ; 

In  the  camp  he  might  boast 

Such  a  numerous  host, 

As  he  never  had  yet 

In  the  battle-field  set ; 

Every  class  and  condition  of  Northern  society, 
Were  in  for  the  trip,  a  most  varied  variety  : 
In  the  camp  he  might  hear  every  lingo  in  vogue, 
"  The  sweet  German  accent,  the  rich  Irish  brogue." 

The  buthiful  boy 

From  the  banks  of  the  Shannon 

Was  there  to  employ 

His  excellent  cannon ; 
And  besides  the  long  files  of  dragoons  and  artillery, 

The  Zouaves  and  Hussars, 

All  the  children  of  Mars — 

There  were  barbers  and  cooks, 


ON   TO   RICHMOND.  99 

And  writers  of  books, — 

The  chef  de  cuisine  with  his  French  bill  of  fare, 
And  the  artists  to  dress  the  young  officers'  hair. 
And  the  scribblers  were  ready  at  once  to  prepare 

An  eloquent  story 

Of  conquest  and  glory  ; 

And  servants  with  numberless  baskets  of  Sillery, 
Though  Wilson,  the  Senator,  followed  the  train, 
At  a  distance  quite  safe,  to  "  conduct  the  champagne :" 
While  the  fields  were  so  green,  and  the  sky  was  so  blue, 
There  was  certainly  nothing  more  pleasant  to  do, 
On  this  pleasant  excursion  to  Richmond. 

In  Congress  the  talk,  as  I  said,  was  of  action, 
To  crush  out  instanter  the  traitorous  faction. 

In  the  press,  and  the  mess, 

They  would  hear  nothing  less 

Than  to  make  the  advance,  spite-  of  rhyme  or  of  reason, 
And  at  once  put  an  end  to  the  insolent  treason. 

There  was  Greeley, 

And  Ely, 

The  bloodthirsty  Grow, 
And  Hickman  (the  rowdy,  not  Hickman  the  beau,) 

And  that  terrible  Baker 
Who  would  seize  on  the  South  every  acre, 
And  Webb,  who  would  drive  us  all  into  the  Gulf,  or 
Some  nameless  locality  smelling  of  sulphur ; 

And  with  all  this  bold  crew, 

Nothing  would  do, 

While  the  fields  were  so  green,  and  the  sky  was  so  blue, 
But  to  march  on  directly  to  Richmond. 

Then  the  gallant  McDowell, 
Drove  madly  the  rowel 


100  THE   SOUTHERN    AMARANTH. 

Of  spur  that  had  never  been  "  won  "  by  him,. 

In  the  flank  of  his  steed, 

To  accomplish  a  deed, 
Such  as  never  before  had  been  done  by  him  j 

And  the  battery  called  Sherman's 
Was  wheeled  into  line, 

While  the  beer-drinking  Germans 
From  Neckar  and  Ehine, 

With  minie  and  yager, 

Came  on  with  a  swagger, 

Full  of  fury  and  lager, 

(The  day  and  the  pageant  were  equally  fine.) 
Oh !  the  fields  were  so  green,  and  the  sky  was  so  blue,, 
Indeed  'twas  a  spectacle  pleasant  to  view, 

As  the  column  pushed,  onward  to  Eichmond. 

Ere  the  march  was  begun, 

In  a  spirit  of  fun, 

General  Scott  in  a  speech 

Said  the  army  should  teach 
The  Southrons  the  lesson  the  laws  to  obey, 
And  just  before  dusk  of  the  third  or  fourth  day, 
Should  joyfully  march  into  Richmond. 

He  spoke  of  their  drill, 

And  their  courage  and  skill, 

And  declared  that  the  ladies  of  Eichmond  would  rave 
O'er  such  matchless  perfection,  and  gracefully  wave 
In  rapture  their  delicate  kerchiefs  in  air 
At  their  morning  parades  on  the  Capitol  Square. 

But  alack !  and  alas  ! 

Mark  what  soon  came  to  pass, 


ON   TO   RICHMOND.  101 

When  this  army,  in  spite  of  his  flatteries, 

Amid  war's  loudest  thunder, 

Must  stupidly  blunder 
Upon  those  accursed  "  masked  batteries." 

Then  Beauregard  came, 

Like  a  tempest  of  flame, 

To  consume  them  in  wrath, 

In  their  perilous  path  ; 
And  Johnson  bore  down  in  a  whirlwind,  to  sweep 

Their  ranks  from  the  field, 

Where  their  doom  had  been  sealed, 
As  the  storm  rushes  over  the  face  of  the  deep  ; 
While  swift  on  the  centre  our  President  pressed, 

And  the  foe  might  descry, 

In  the  glance  of  bis  eye, 

The  light  that  once  blazed  upon  Diomed's  crest. 
McDowell !  McDowell !  weep,  weep  for  the  day, 
When  the  Southrons  you  met  in  their  battle  array ; 
To  your  confident  hosts  with  its  bullets  and  steel, 
Twas  worse  than  Culloden  to  luckless  Lochiel. 
Oh !  the  generals  were  green,  and  old  Scott  is  now  blue, 
And  a  terrible  business  McDowell  to  you, 

Was  that  pleasant  excursion  to  Eichmond, 

HICHMOND  WHIG. 


102  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


BY   J.    E.    BAEEICK,    KENTUCKY. 

HE  did  not  ask  that  the  marble  slab, 

Above  his  dust  should  rise, 
Nor  the  gilded  shaft  with  his  story  point, 

To  the  blue  Virginia  skies  ; 
A  land  to  its  high-born  idols  wed, 

He  knew  would  his  memory  shrine, 
Long  as  he  slept  in  the  classic  shade 

Of  the  mighty  Oak  and  Pine. 

The  sculptured  stone  and  the  sacred  um 

May  tell  of  the  dying  name, 
And  the  monument  to  ages  bear 

The  record  of  its  Fame  ; 
Yet,  vain  were  such  to  his  piercing  eye, 

As  he  scanned  the  shadowy  years, 
And  saw  his  name  on  the  royal  roll, 

The  brightest  among  its  peers. 

His  eye,  in  its  fervor,  glances  set 

On  Fame's  eternal  Sun, 
His  star  in  the  zenith  of  glory  rose 

With  that  of  Washington ; 

*  "On  the  highest  elevation  within  his  rail  enclosure,  or  yard,  stood/ 
an  oak  of  great  size  facing  the  east,  and  twelve  feet  toward  the  west 
was  an  enormous  pine  of  immense  height  and  majestic  mien.  In 
this  space  John  Kandolph,  at  an  early  day  selected  his  final  resting- 
place.  His  wishes  in  this  respect  were  not  disregarded,  for  in  that 
memorable  space,  without  tombstone  or  monument  and  with  only 
the  oak  and  the  pine  as  nature's  sentries,  rest  the  ashss  of  Virginia's; 
brightest  intellect. "  CAVAXIEIL 


THE  MONUMENT  OAK  AND  PINE.  103 

And  scornful  of  all  worldly  pomp — 

Of  the  hollow  sound  of  praise ; 
He  traced  on  the  scroll  of  his  cenotaph, 

In  the  light  of  the  after-days. 

He  sleeps  as  the  sons  of  genius  sleep, 

On  a  consecrated  spot, 
"While  the  trump  of  Fame,  to  the  world  proclaims, 

He  shall  never  be  forgot ; 
For  ages  still  will  Virginia's  heart 

Over  the  spot  recline  ; 
Its  grief  with  the  mournful  requiem  blend, 

Of  the  sentry  Oak  and  Pine. 

Keen  as  the  clear  Damascan  blade 

Each  quick  sarcastic  word, 
His  thoughts  in  a  gush  of  eloquence 

That  coldest  bosom  stirred  ; 
As  the  nervous  glance  of  his  flashing  eye 

Through  the  Council  Chamber  ran, 
When  armed  with  the  Jael -sword  of  Truth, 

He  led  in  the  Eoman  van. 

Blent  with  dust  of  their  kindred  soil, 

His  ashes  of  renown, 
With  his  memory  like  a  jewel  set. 

In  Virginia's  casket  crown ; 
And  as  the  seasons  come  and  go, 

And  the  passing  years  decline, 
No  greener  spot  will  the  sleeper  mark, 

Than  the  sturdy  Oak  and  Pine. 

ATLANTA  INTELUGKNCEK. 


104:  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

I 


BY  JOHN  II.    JOHNSON,    M.    D.,    GEOKGIA. 

GAY,  guiltless  thing ! 

How  like  a  queen 
Art  thou  among  the  sisterhood  of  spring, 

Blushing  unseen 

In  this  sequestered  spot, 
By  nature  cherished,  though  by  man  forgot 

By  ruined  hearth, 

Or  moss-grown  tomb, 
The  sad  memorial  of  departed  worth, 

Thy  virgin  bloom 

Scents  with  perfume  the  gale, 
And  cheers  with  hope  the  once  remembered  vale. 

Thou  dost  at  even, 

Unfold  thy  leaves, 
To  welcome  in  the  crystal  tears  of  Heaven  ; 

As  one  that  heaves 

With  sorrow  o'er  the  tomb, 
"Where  love  steals  balm  from  amaranthine  bloom. 

*  On  one  of  the  marches  of  the  Confederate  army,  owing  to  the  im 
passable  condition  of  the  road,  the  train  had  to  move  through  a  field. 
So  much  rain  had  fallen  and  the  earth  was  so  saturated  with  water, 
that  two  wagons  could  not  move  in  the  same  track.  The  writer  stood 
for  some  time  in  a  small  graveyard  in  the  edge  of  the  field,  looking 
at  a  small  rose  growing  near  one  of  the  graves;  and  seeing  that  each 
wagon  came  nearer,  and  knowing  that  it  would  ultimately  be  crushed, 
he  plucked  it,  and  when  he  reached  camp  that  evening  penned  these 
lines. 


THE  CHARGE  BY  THE  FORD.  105 

And  jet,  sweet  thing, 

Mortality 
With  all  its  hopes  once  jocund  as  the  spring, 

Is  typed  in  thee, 

Passing  as  swift  away 
As  leaf  by  leaf  in  an  autumnal  day. 

Yet  spring  returns 

To  thee  sweet  rose, 
As  life  eternal  to  our  spirit  urns, 

With  sweet  repose, 

When  spring  shall  strew  with  flowers 
The  paths  we  joyous  roam  in  Eden's  floral  bowers. 

SCOTT'S  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE,  FOE  JUNE,  1867. 


THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH,    NEW  JEESET. 

EIGHTY  and  nine  with  their  captain, 
Kode  in  the  enemy's  track, 

Bode  in  the  grey  of  the  morning — 
Nine  of  the  ninety  came  back 

Slow  rose  the  mist  from  the  river ; 

Lighter  each  moment  the  way , 
Careless  and  tearless  and  fearless, 

Galloped  they  on  to  the  fray. 

Singing  in  tune,  how  the  scabbards, 
Loud  on  the  stirrup-irons  rang  ; 

Clinked  as  the  men  rose  in  saddle, 
Fell,  as -they  sank,  with  a  clang. 


106  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

What  is  it  moves  by  the  river, 
Jaded,  and  weary,  and  weak  ? 

Grey -backs, — a  cross  on  their  banner — 
Yonder  the  fbo  whom  they  seek. 

j  Silence  !  they  see  not,  they  hear  not, 

Tarrying  there  by  the  marge  ; 
Forward  !  draw  sabre !  Trot !  Gallop ! 
Charge  !  like  a  hurricane,  charge ! 

Ah  !  'twas  a  man-trap  infernal ! 

Fire  like  the  deep  pit  of  hell ; 
Volley  on  volley  to  meet  them, 

Mixed  with  the  grey  rebels'  yelL 

Ninety  had  ridden  to  battle, 
Tracing  the  enemy's  track — 

Ninety  had  ridden  to  battle  ; 
Nine  of  the  ninety  came  back. 

Honor  the  nine  of  the  ninety, 

Honor  the  heroes  who  came 
Scatheless  from  five  hundred  muskets, 

Safe  from  the  lead-bearing  flame. 

I 
Eighty  and  one  of  the  troopers 

Lie  on  the  field  of  the  slain — 
Lie  on  the  red  field  of  honor — 

Honor  the  nine  who  remain. 

Cold  are  the  dead  there,  and  gory, 
There  where  their  life  blood  was  spilt ; 

Back  came  the  nine  with  each  sabre 
Eed  from  the  point  to -the  hilt 


"OF  VERY  FAITHFULNESS."  10T 

Out  with  three  cheers  and  a  tiger  I 
Let  the  flags  wave  as  they  come  ! 

Give  them  the  blast  of  the  trumpet ! 
Give  them  the  roll  of  the  drum  I 


OLD  GUAKD. 


"Of  very  faithfulness  them  hast  caused  me  to  be  troubled.'* 

PSALMS, 

BY  MISS  MOT.LTF.  E.  MOOBE,  TEXAS. 

DEAE  Christ,  how  I  sigh  for  life's  blessings ! 

Now,  what  have  I  done 
Lord,  that  I  am  denied  of  the  blessings, 

Even  I,  alone? 

"  Worm,  what  hast  thou  done,  or  how  striven, 
That  thou  shouldst  be  thought  of  in  Heaven, 
Where  the  gifts  are  prepared  that  are  given 

Away  from  the  throne  ?" 

Dear  Christ,  even  that  thou  hadst  given 

Is  gone  in  a  day ! 
Lord,  Lord,  oh,  why  hast  thou  given 

And  taken  away  ? 

"  Clay,  hast  thou  a  place  for  thy  treasures 
Where  dust  will  not  dim  them  ?     Are  pleasures 
For  thee  to  retain,  whose  lease  measures 

An  hour,  or  a  day  ?" 


108  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Dear  Christ,  I  am  sinking  with  burdens, 

And  wearying  fast ! 
Stern  master,  ah,  why  am  I  burdened 

Thus,  blind  and  outcast  ? 
"  Slave,  have  I  not  bought  thee  with  prices, 
With  sorrows  arid  large  sacrifices  ? 
Groan  thou,  till  thy  sorrow  suffices 

For  mine  that  is  past !" 

But  Christ,  ah  sweet  Christ,  I  am  lonely 

And  wretched  to  see ! 
Dear  Lord,  because  I  am  lonely 

Have  pity  on  me  ! 

"  Child  !  weep  all  thy  tears  on  my  bosom ! 
vLean  closer,  yet  close  to  my  bosom, 
Because  thou.  art  bruised,  oh  blossom! 

Draw  nigh  unto  Me ! 

"  When  thou  comest  with  question,  I  smite  thee, 

Oh,  lonely  to  see  ! 
Because  thou  didst  question.  I  smote  thee, 

In  mercy  to  thee  1 
The  rose-leaf  is  bruised  to  its  merit, 
And  souls  to  the  crowns  they  inherit  I 
Of  faithfulness  child,  that  thy  spirit 

Might  cleave  unto  Me  I" 


THE   VICTOBY   OF  FAITH.  109 


COL.    WM.    S.    HAWKINS.    C.    S.  A.,  TKNKESSEE. 

Prisoner  of  war;  Camp  Chase,  Ohio. 

AT  the  trumpet's  blast  the  gates  flew  wide, 

And  thousands  packed  the  court, 
Before  the  Eoman  lords  that  day, 

The  captives  furnished  sport ; 
The  sun's  broad  orb  went  up  the  sky, 

And  tipped  the  scene  with  gold, 
And  far  beyond  the  Claudian  way 

The  yellow  Tiber  rolled. 

The  Galdiators  first  in  strife, 

Their  glittering  weapons  crossed, 
And  furious  then  in  mortal  rage. 

The  waves  of  conflict  tossed ; 
Strong  men  were  there,  whose  children  played, 

By  Danube's  sluggish  tide  ; 
And  those  whose  homes  lay  sweet  and  fair, 

Along  the  Taurus's  side. 

The  fierce-eyed  tigers,  of  the  Lybian  wild, 

Leaped  forth  into  the  cirque, 
And  spotted  leopards  lithe  and  strong, 

Began  their  horrid  work  ; 
And  howls  of  pain,  and  yells  of  wrath, 

Filled  all  the.  trembling  air, 
"While  Koman  knights  applauded  loud, 

And  smiled  the  Eoman  fair. 


110  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

At  length  tlie  Herald  far  proclaimed, 

The  last,  best  scene  of  all, 
And  led  a  Christian  martyr  forth, 

In  fetters'  grievous  thrall : 
No  youth,  with  form  of  manly  strength — 

No  feeble,  grey  haired  sire, 
A  soft-eyed  maiden,  sweet  and  pure, 

To  whet  a  lion's  ire. 

She  stood,  her  timid  glance  cast  down, 

And  trembling  like  a  fawn, 
Which  baying  hounds  and  hunters  rude 

Surround  at  hour  of  dawn : 
One  white  hand  slowly  lifted  up 

The  cruel,  wearing  chain, 
And  one  pressed  close  her  beating  heart, 

Suffused  with  grief  and  pain. 

She  thought  of  home  and  peaceful  joys  ; 

Her  father  strong  and  proud, 
Her  mother — clinging  faithful  soul — 

By  weight  of  misery  bowed  ; 
Her  sisters,  and  her  brothers  fond — 

Of  ONE  she  would  not  speak, 
But  at  the  slightest  thought  of  him, 

A  blush  o'erspread  her  cheek. 

And  so  they  neared  the  monster's  den, 

With  triple  iron  bound ; 
Through  all  the  spectacles  his  might, 

With  bloodiest  triumphs  crowned. 
White  his  large  teeth,  and  stark  and  red 

His  yawning,  dreadful  throat — 
His  eyes,  with  greed  afire,  were  turned 

On  his  new  prize  to  gloat 


THE  VICTORY   OF  FAITH.  Ill 

He  rose,  and  shook  liis  shaggy  mane, 

And  clambered  at  his  door, 
The  far-off  hill -tops  echoed  loud, 

His  deep  resounding  roar  ; 
'So,  in  the  Nubian  waste,  he  looked 

When  roused  by  foe  for  fight ; 
'Twas  such  a  glance  and  such  a  roar 

As  filled  their  souls  with  fright 

They  loosed  her  chains  and  left  her  there 

In  all  her  maiden  grace ; 
While  star-like,  heavenly  faith,  lit  up 

Her  fair  and  modest  face. 
The  rusted  hinges  turned,  and  forth 

The  brute  in  fury  sprung  ; 
His  lips  all  necked  with  wrathful  foam, 

And  swelled  his  lolling  tongue. 

The  breathless  thousands  rose  to  see 

That  youthful  martyr  die, 
But  oh !  what  magic  spell  is  that 

Whose  lustre  fills  her  eye  ? 
Her  sweet  lips  part,  her  full  heart  throbs, 

Her  beauteous  hands  are  raised  ; 
The  cruel  beast  forgot  his  wrath, 

Before  that  look  amazed  ! 

She  kneels,  and  on  the  yielding  sand 

Her  rounded  form  sinks  low, 
Down  in  her  soul  the  maiden  prays 

Unto  her  God — and  lo  ! — 
The  pure  appeal  is  borne  on  high, 

By  watching  angels  fleet ; 
And  now  the  humbled  lion  comes, 

And  crouches  at  her  feet 


112  THE   SOUTHERN  AMAKANTH. 

Her  little  hand  is  softly  laid 

Upon  his  tawny  mane, 
Her  tender  eyes  are  wet  with  tears, 

Like  rose-buds  after  rain ; 
The  watching  courtiers  shake  the  ring 

"With  thunderous  acclaim  ; 
But  her  weak  lips  can  only  shape 

Her  heavenly  Father's  mane. 

The  Emperor  rose  in  purple  state, 

And  bade  his  minions  bear 
The  ransomed  maiden  forth  again 

To  freedom's  grateful  air ; 
And  stately  priests  their  rites  ordained 

Within  the  temple  grove, 
Ascribing  praise  to  Juno  fair, 

And  to  Olympian  Jove. 

So  let  the  Church  in  these  dark  days 

Stand  bravely  at  her  post, 
Though  cruel  wars  and  strife  abound 

And  Satan  leads  his  host ; 
They  gnash  their  lion  fangs  at  her, 

But  ah !  they  gnash  in  vain, 
For  God  will  send  his  armies  down 

To  save  and  to  sustain. 

And  in  some  gracious  coming  time, 

Her  banner  white  shall  be 
The  truest  badge  of  might  sublime, 

That  waves  o'er  land  or  sea  ; 
And  war's  red-lettered  creed  die  out, 

Beneath  her  flowers  of  spring , 
And  where  our  martyrs  fight  and  bleed 

Their  babes  shall  sit  and  sing. 
Ou>  GUABD. 


RAIN  IN  THE  HEAET.  113 


<put  w  tie  § 

[The  following  lines  were  found  by  a  Confederate  soldier  in 
deserted  house  on  the  Peninsula,  Virginia.  J 

"  Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall." 

IF  this  were  all — oh !  if  this  were  all 
That  into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 
There  were  fainter  sobs  in  the  poet's  rhyme, 
There  were  fewer  wrecks  on  .the  shores  of  time. 

But  tempests  of  woe  pass  over  the  soul — 
Since  winds  of  anguish  we  cannot  control ; 
And  shock  after  shock  we  are  called  to  bear, 
Till  the  lips  are  white  with  the  heart's  despair. 

The  shores  of  time  with  wrecks  are  strewn, 
Into  the  ear  comes  ever  a  moan, 
Wrecks  of  hopes,  that  set  sail  with  glee, 
"Wrecks  of  love,  sinking  silently. 

.Many  are  hidden  from  the  human  eye, 
Only  Grod  knoweth  how  deep  they  lie ; 
Only  God  heard  when  arose  the  prayer 
"  Help  me  to  bear  ! — oh  1  help  me  to  bear. 

"  Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall," 
If  this  were  all — oh !  if  this  were  all ! 
Yet  there's  a  refuge  from  storm  and  blast, 
Gloria  patri — we'll  reach  it  at  last. 

Be  strong,  be  strong,  to  my  heart  I  cry, 
The  pearl  in  the  wounded  shell  doth  lie ; 
Days  of  sunshine  are  given  to  all, 
Though  into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall 


114  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


BY  DB.    F.    O.    TICKNOK,    GEOBGIA. 

THE  knightliest  of  the  knightly  race, 

Who,  since  the  days  of  old, 
Have  kept  the  lamp  of  chivalry 

Alight  in  hearts  of  gold  ; 
The  kindliest  of  the  kindly  band, 

Who,  rarely  hunting  ease, 
Yet  rode  with  Spotswood  round  the  land, 

And  Kaleigh  round  the  seas. 

Who  climbed  the  blue  Virginia  hills, 

Against  embattled  foes, 
And  planted  there  in  valleys  fair 

The  lily  and  the  rose ; 
Whose  fragrance  lives  in  many  lands, 

Whose  beauty  stars  the  earth, 
And  lights  the  hearts  of  many  homes 

In  loveliness  and  worth. 


We  thought  they  slept !  the  sons  who  kept, 

The  names  of  noble  sires, 
And  slumbered  while  the  darkness  crept 

Around  the  vigil  fires. 
But  still  the  Golden  Horseshoe  knights 

Their  old  Dominion  keep, 
Whose  foes  have  found  enchanted  ground, 

But  not  a  knight  asleep. 


A   PRAYER.  115 


BY  FADETTE,   AUTHOR   OF  INGEMISCO. 
I. 

LORD  GOD  or  HOSTS  !  we  lift  our  heart  to  Thee ! 
Our  streaming  eyes  lift  vainly  toward  Thy  Throne 
Earth's  mists  and  shadows  are  so  mighty  grown, 

The  gleam  of  seraph-wings  no  more  we  see. 

n. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts  !  we  lift  our  heart  to  Thee  ! 
Our  hands  are  fettered  down  by  galling  chains, 
No  more  the  sceptre  in  our  grasp  remains, 

Beneath  the  yoke  we  pass,  with  liberty. 

in. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts  !  we  lift  our  heart  to  Thee  ! 
Our  brows  are  bowed  beneath  Thy  crown  of  thorn, 
'  Tis  heavy  with  the  blood  of  braves  we  mourn, 

It  darkles  with  the  life-blood  of  the  free  ! 

IV. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts  !  we  lift  our  heart  to  Thee  ! 
A  ceaseless  moan  wails  on  in  breeze  of  morn, 
Through  all  the  busy  din  of  day  upborne, 

And  when  the  gloaming  broodeth  o'er  the  sea. 

V. 

O  God  of  Hosts !  turn  Thou  and  hear  that  moan ! 
No  Southern  lips  are  strangers  to  its  sound, 
And  shuddering  in  the  merry  frolics  round, 

Our  prattling  children  catch  its  monotone. 


116  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

VI. 

Strong  men  weep  now,  who  never  wept  before,. 
Girl  voices  sorrow  loud  and  passionate, 
Black,  stolid  women  yearning  at  Thy  gate, 

Prayer-worn  lips  quiver,  faded  eyes  brim  o'er. 

VII. 

Thy  gate — it  is  the  only  open  door, 

Where  standeth  Azrael,  beckoning  one  by  one  ; — 
By  which  we  leave,  our  pilgrim  goal  being  won, 

This  drear  God's  Acre,  crimsoned,  drenched  in  gore. 

VIII. 

Each  lowly  grave  our  mountains  proudly  mark  ; 
Death  seared  the  land  throughout  with  fiery  tread,, 
O  Thou  who  gavest  tears  to  Lazarus  dead, 

Behold  our  mother-country  lieth  stark ! 

IX. 

It  is  too  late  for  us  to  raise  or  save, 

We  struggled  with  the  blood-hound  at  her  throat, 
We  saw  his  savage  glare  above  her  gloat ; 

Teach  us  to  kneel,  O  God,  beside  her  grave. 

X. 

Teach  us  to  kneel  to  Thee  alone,  O  God ! 
The  tyrant  fain  would  spurn  us  at  his  feet, 
The  gore  upon  our  mother's  winding-sheet — 

Would  brand  us  murderers,  trickling  through  the  sod. 

XI. 

Teach  us  to  kneel — teach  us  to  pray,  O  God, 
Not  for  revenge,  for  vengeance  is  Thine  own ; 


A   PRAYER.  117 

But  that  Thou  hear  our  ceaseless,  suppliant  moan, 
And  that  Thou  see  we  bow  beneath  Thy  rod. 


XII. 


Lord  God  of  Hosts  !  do  Thou  lift  up  our  hearts  ; 

Let  them  not  lower  'neath  our  fetters'  weight ; 

Let  not  our  war-worn  heroes  stoop  to  fate, 
Nor  barter  Honor  in  the  foe's  full  marts. 


XIII. 


The  laurels  in  God's  Acre  shelter  Thou, 

Let  still  the  people's  patriotic  tears 

Wash  from  their  shining  crests  the  dust  of  years, 
And  dews  from  heaven  vivify  each  bough. 


XIV. 


O  garner  Thou  the  lowlier  flowers  that  rest 
Beneath  the  sod,  until  Thou  bid  them  rise  ; 
Receive  them,  meet  and  stainless  sacrifice, 

And  take  them,  gracious  Father,  to  Thy  breast. 


XV. 


Break  Thou,  Lord  God,  our  captor's  length'ning  chain, 
Wherewith  the  foe  hath  man  and  freedom  bound ; 
From  deep  to  deep  its  clanking  doth  resound, 

Our  hearts  beat  heavy  to  the  dull  refrain. 


XVI. 


Hear  Thou  his  prayer,  to  whom  alone  he  prays ; 

In  loving  mercy  guard  his  widowed  wife ! 

With  honor  hedge  his  orphaned  children's  life, 
Untarnished  keep  Thou,  aye,  his  hard-won  bays. 


118  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

XVII. 

Lord  God !  to  Thee  with  him  our  heart  we  give  ; 
O  Thou  that  heardest  Mary's  stricken  moan, 
Boll  from  our  mother's  grave  the  sealed  stone — 

Say  to  the  dead  within — "  Come  forth  and  live !" 


Ife  <8Mtt    Sfttnt. 


BY  THOS.  BUCHANAN  BEAD. 

The  following  exquisite  poem  is  pronounced,  by  the  Westmin 
ster  Review,  to  be  unquestionably  the  finest  of  American  authorship. 
Alas  !  that  the  story  therein  detailed  cannot  be  an  isolated  one.  Full 
many  a  grass-green  hillock  is  the  vernal  shroud  of  a  broken  heart. 

WITHIN  the  sober  realms  of  leafless  trees, 
The  russet  year  inhaled  the  dreamy  air ; 

Like  some  tanned  reaper  in  his  hour  of  ease 
When  all  the  fields  are  lying  brown  and  bare. 

The  gray  barns  looking  from  their  hazy  hills, 
O'er  the  dun  waters  widening  in  the  vales, 

Sent  down  the  air  a  greeting  to  the  mills, 
On  the  dull  thunder  of  alternate  flails. 

All  sights  were  mellowed,  and  all  sounds  subdued, 
The  hills  seemed  further  and  the  stream  sang 

As  in  a  dream  the  distant  woodman  hewed 
His  winter  log,  with  many  a  muffled  blow. 


THE   CLOSING   SCENE.  119 

The  embattled  forests,  erewhile  armed  with  gold, 
Their  banners  bright  with  every  martial  hue, 

Now  stood,  like  some  sad,  beaten  host  of  old, 
Withdrawn  afar  in  Time's  remotest  blue. 

On  sombre  wings  the  vulture  tried  his  flight ; 

The  dove  scarce  heard  his  sighing  mate's  complaint ; 
And,  like  a  star  slowly  drowning  in  the  light, 

The  village  church  vane  seemed  to  pale  and  faint 

The  sentinel  cock  upon  the  hill-side  crew — 
Crew  thrice — and  all  was  stiller  than  before  ; 

Silent,  till  some  replying  warbler  blew 

His  altern  horn,  and  then  was  heard  no  more. 

Where  erst  the  jay  within  the  tall  elm's  crest, 

Made  garrulous  trouble  round  her  unfledged  young, 

And  where  the  oriole  hung  her  swaying  nest, 
By  every  light  wind  like  a  censer  swung. 

"Where  sang  the  noisy  martins  of  the  eaves, 
The  busy  swallows  circling  ever  near — 

Foreboding,  as  the  rustic  mind  believes, 
An  early  harvest,  and  a  plenteous  year: 

Where  every  bird  that  watched  the  vernal  feast, 
Shook  the  sweet  slumber  from  his  wings  at  morn ; 

To  warn  the  reaper  of  the  rosy  east : 
All  now  was  sunless,  empty  and  forlorn. 

Alone,  from  out  the  stubble  piped  the  quail ; 

And  croaked  the  crow  through  all  the  dreary  gloom 
Alone,  the  pheasant  drumming  in  the  vale, 

Made  echo  in  the  distant  cottage  loom. 


120  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom  upon  the  bowers ; 

The  spiders  moved  their  thin  shrouds  night  by  night, 
The  thistle-down,  the  only  ghost  of  flowers. 

Sailed  slowly  by — passed  noiseless  out  of  sight 

Amid  all  this,  in  this  most  dreary  air, 

And  where  the  woodbine  shed  upon  the  porch 

Its  crimson  leaves,  as  if  the  year  stood  there, 
Firing  the  floor  with  its  inverted  torch — 

Amid  all  this — the  centre  of  the  scene, 

The  white  haired  matron,  with  monotonous  tread, 

Plied  the  swift  wheel,  and  with  her  joyless  mien 
Sat  like  a  fate,  and  watched  the  flying  thread. 

She  had  known  Sorrow — He  had  walked  with  her. 

Oft  supped,  and  broke  the  ashen  crust, 
And  in  the  dead  leaves  still  she  heard  the  stir 

Of  his  thick  mantle  trailing  in  the  dust. 

"While  yet  her  cheek  was  bright  with  summer  bloom, 
Her  country  summoned,  and  she  gave  her  all ; 
And  twice,  war  bowed  to  her  his  sable  plume — 
Kegave  the  sword  to  rust  upon  the  wall. 

Eegave  the  sword,  but  not  the  hand  that  drew 
And  struck  for  liberty  the  dying  blow ; 

Nor  him,  who  to  his  sire  and  country  true, 
Fell  'mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading  foe. 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  drooping  wheel  went  on, 
Like  a  low  murmur  of  a  hive  at  noon ; 

Long,  but  not  loud — the  memory  of  the  gone 

Breathed  through  her  lips  a  sad  and  tremulous  tone. 


THE   TENNESSEE   EXILE' S   SONG.  121 

At  last  the  thread  was  snapped,  her  head  was  bowed  ; 

Life  dropped  the  distaff  through  her  hands  serene, 
And  loving  neighbors  smoothed  her  careful  shroud  ; 

"While  death  and  winter  closed  the  autumn  scena 


I  HEAR  the  rushing  of  her  streams, 

The  murmuring  of  her  trees, 
The  exile's  anguish  swells  my  heart 

And  melts  with  each  soft  breeze. 
1Midst  other  scenes  her  corn-hills  wave 

Her  mountains  pierce  the  sky — 
Where,  where  are  they  who  swore  to  save— - 

To  conquer  or  to  die  ? 

They  come  from  every  blue  hill-side. 

From  every  lovely  dale, 
The  heart,  the  soul,  the  very  pride 

Of  mountain,  hill  and  vale  ; 
They  court,  like  Anak's  stalwart  sons, 

The  rapture  of  the  strife, 
Drink  in  the  earthquake  of  the  guns, 

To  them  the  breath  of  life. 

.Spare  not  the  invading  mongrel  hordes, 

But  slay  them  as  they  stand  ! 
Strike !  Tennessee  has  living  swords, 

The  best  in  all  the  land  ! 


122  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Strew  o'er  her  plains  their  hostile  lines, 
Drench  her  fair  fields  with  blood, 

Fill  their  long  ranks  with  bitter  groans — 
Let  blood  flow  like  a  flood  ! 

Aye,  sow  the  seeds  of  lasting  hate 

At  Johnson's,  Hatton's  graves, 
And  do  their  deeds,  and  dare  their  fate, 

Or  live  the  oppressors'  slaves  ! 
Bleed  freely,  as  you  did  of  yore, 

In  every  well  fought  field, 
Press  round  the  flag  yon  always  bore 

The  foremost,  as  a  shield. 

#  *  *  *  *  4 

I  feel  the  pulse  beat  high  and  quick, 

Her  sinews  stretch  for  strife  ; 
Full  come  her  heart-throbs  deep  and  thick, 

She  kindles  into  light ! 
Though  Donelson  has  told  her  tale, 

And  Shiloh's  page  is  bright, 
There's  yet  a  bloodier  field  to  win, 

For  Nashville  and  the  right ! 


WALKER  MEEIWEATHEE  BELL,  KENTUCKY. 

A  PRICE  is  on  my  darling's  head, 
Outlawed  and  hunted  down  ; 

Yet  is  my  love  more  proudly  true 
Than  if  it  wore  a  crown. 


THE   SOUTHEBN   WIFE. 

A  crown — thy  dark  hair  is  a  crown, 

And  if  amid  its  curls 
Gleam  silver  lines  of  care,  they  shine 

Fairer  to  me  than  pearls. 

Yainly  they  strive  to  brand  thy  brow, 
That  dauntless  brow,  with  shame  ; 

I  never  knew  how  proud,  till  now, 
I  was  to  bear  thy  name. 

My  woman's  heart  swells  with  the  thought, 

And  triumph  fills  my  breast, 
To  know  that  fearless  head  had  sought 

No  other  place  of  rest. 

How  blest  the  privilege  to  share 

A  patriot's  high  career  ; 
There  is  no  pang  I  could  not  bear 

For  cause  and  love  so  dear. 

For  worlds  I  would  not  shame  my  lord 

"With  unavailing  fears, 
Nor  gird  my  soldier  with  a  sword 

Stained  by  a  woman's  tears. 

I  know  that  many  a  costly  life 

Of  father,  husband,  son, 
Must  yield  in  this  wild  battle  strife 

Ere  all  is  lost  or  won. 

Yet  will  I  compass  thee  about 

Where'er  thy  footsteps  move, 
With  the  strong  rampart  of  my  prayers — • 

The  yearning  prayers  of  love. 
METROPOLITAN  HECORD. 


12S 


124          THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


The  following  beautiful  lines  were  found  on  the  body  of  a  young 
soldier  belonging  to  one  of  the  Alabama  regiments  in  General  Lee's 
army,  and  are  supposed  to  have  been  written  by  his  mother ;  as  none 
but  a  mother's  loving  heart  could  have  prompted  such  exquisite  sen 
timents  : 

I  KNOW  the  sun  shines  and  the  lilacs  are  blowing, 
And  the  summer  sends  kisses  by  beautiful  May; 

Oh !  to  see  the  rich  treasures  the  spring  is  bestowing, 
And  think  my  boy,  Willie,  enlisted  to-day. 

It  seems  but  a  day  since  at  twilight,  low  humming, 
I  rocked  him  to  sleep  with  his  cheek  upon  mine, 

While  Kobby,  the  four-year-old,  watched  for  the  coming 
Of  father,  adown  the  street's  indistinct  line. 

It  is  many  a  year  since  my  Harry  departed, 

To  come  back  no  more  in  the  twilight  or  dawn ; 

And  Hobby  grew  weary  of  watching,  and  started 
Alone  on  the  journey  his  father  had  gone. 

It  is  many  a  year,  and  this  afternoon,  sitting 
At  Bobby's  old  window,  I  heard  the  band  play, 

And  suddenly  ceased  dreaming  over  my  knitting 
To  recollect  Willie  was  twenty  to-day. 

And  that  standing  beside  him  this  soft,  May-day  mora- 

ing> 

The  sun  making  gold  of  his  wreathing  cigar-smoke, 
I  saw  in  his  sweet  eye  and  lips  a  faint  warning 

And  choked  down  the  tears  when  he  eagerly  spoke. 


WILLIE.  125 

"  Dear  motlier,  you  know  how  these  Northmen  are  crow 
ing, 
They  would  trample  the  rights  of  the  South  in  the 

dust ; 

The  boys  are  all  fire,  and  they  wish  I  were  going." 
He  stopped,  but  his  eyes  said,  "  0  say,  if  I  must !" 

I  smiled  on  my  boy,  though  my  heart  it  seemed  break 
ing; 

My  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  I  turned  them  away ; 
I  answered  him,  "  Willie,  'tis  well  you  are  waking ; 

Go  do  as  your  father  would  bid  you,  to-day." 

I  sit  in  the  window  and  see  the  flags  flying, 
And  dreamily  list  to  the  roll  of  the  drum ; 

And  smother  the  pain  in  my  heart  that  is  lying, 
And  bid  all  the  fears  in  my  bosom  be  dumb. 

I  shall  sit  in  the  window  when  the  summer  is  lying 
Out  over  the  fields  ;  and  the  honey  bee's  hum 

Lulls  the  rose  at  the  porch  from  her  tremulous  sighing, 
And  watch  for  the  face  of  my  darling  to  come. 

And  if  he  should  fall,  his  young  life  he  has  given 
For  freedom's  sweet  sake,  and  for  me,  I  will  pray 

Once  more,  with  my  Harry  and  Kobby  in  Heaven, 
To  meet  the  dear  boy  that  enlisted  to-day. 

METROPOLITAN  RECORD. 


126  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 


BY  GEN.    S.    B.  BUCKNER,  KENTUCKY. 

:  GIE  him  strong  drink  until  he  wink, 

That's  sinking  in  despair  ; 
An'  liquor  guid  to  fire  his  bluid 

That's  prest  wi'  grief  an'  care  ; 
Then  let  him  bouse  an'  deep  carouse 

Wi'  bumpers  flowing  o'er 
Till  lie  forgets  his  loves  an'  debts, 

An'  minds  his  griefs  no  more. " 

BUENS. 


GIE  me  the  light  sae  pure  an'  bright, 
That  beams  in  woman's  e'e  ; 

Let  others  praise  the  starry  rays, 
Her  e'e's  the  light  for  me. 

The  glist'ning  sheen  in  summer's  e'en, 

Which  in  the  sky  we  see  ; 
Less  brightly  beams,  an'  paler  seems, 

Then  that  in  woman's  e'e. 

Her  voice,  'tis  known,  excels  in  tone 

The  music  of  the  spheres, 
A  sure  relief  to  care  and  grief, 

Are  dulcet  tones  like  hers. 

Whenever,  then,  we  need  a  fren' 
To  soothe  the  aching  heart, 

Wi'  a'  her  wiles,  sweet  woman's  smiles, 
True  solace  will  impart 


THE    KENTUCKY   PARTISAN.  127 

In  bumpers  deep  some  try  to  steep 

The  griefs  they  cairn  a'  quell ; 
!Let  me  but  sip  frae  woman's  lip, 

Where  sweeter  nectars  dwelL 

Though  in  her  pets  she  stamps  an'  frets 

An'  fast  her  teardrops  fa', 
Who  wadna'  risk  a  storm  sae  brisk, 

To  kiss  the  tears  awa, 

Gie  me  the  light  sae  pure  and  bright 

That  beams  in  woman's  e'e ; 
Let  ithers  praise  the  starry  rays, 

Her  e'e's  the  light  for  me. 

FOBT  WABEEN  PEISON,  1862. 


BY  PAUL  H.    HAYNE. 
I 

HATH  the  wily  Swamp  Fox 

Come  again  to  earth  ? 
Hath  the  soul  of  Sumpter 

Owned  a  second  birth  ? 
Prom  the  Western  hill-slopes 

Starts  a  hero  form, 
Stalwart  like  the  oak  tree 

Tameless  like  the  storm  I 


128  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTHS 

His  an  eye  of  lightning  ! 

His  a  heart  of  steel ! 
Flashing  deadly  vengeance, 

Thrilled  with  fiery  zeal : 
Hound  him-  down,  ye  minions, 

Seize  him  if  ye  can ; 
But  woe  betide  the  hireling  knave 

That  meets  him,  man  to  man ! 

II. 

Well  done !  gallant  MOKG-AN  ! 

Strike  with  might  and  main, 
Till  the  fair  field  redden 

With  a  gory  rain  ; 
Smite  them  by  the  roadside, 

Smite  them  in  the  wood, 
By  the  lonely  valley 

And  the  purpling  flood ; 
'JSTeath  the  mystic  star-light, 

'Neath  the  glare  of  day, 
Harass,  sting,  affright  them, 

Scatter  them  and  slay ! 
Beard,  who  durst,  our  chieftain  ! 

Bind  him — if  you  can — • 
But  woe  betide  the  Hessian  thief 

Who  meets  him,  man  to  man  I 

III. 

There's  a  lurid  purpose 
Brooding  in  his  breast, 

Born  of  solemn  passion 
And  a  deep  unrest, 


THE    KENTUCKY  PARTISAN. 


129 


For  our  ruined  homesteads, 

And  our  ravaged  land, 
For  our  women  outraged 

By  the  dastard  hand. 
For  our  thousand  sorrows, 

And  our  untold  shame, 
For  our  blighted  harvests, 

For  our  towns  of  flame — 
He  has  sworn  (and  recks  not 

Who  may  cross  his  path,) 
That  the  foe  shall  feel  him 

In  his  fervid  wrath — 
That,  while  will  and  spirit 

Hold4  one  spark  of  life, 
Blood  shall  stain  his  broadsword, 

Blood  shall  wet  his  knife. 
Oh  !  ye  Hessian  horsemen, 

Crush  him  if  ye  can ; 
But  woe  betide  your  staunchest  slave 

Who  meets  him,  man  to  man  I 

IY. 

'Tis  no  time  for  pleasure ! 

Doff  the  silken  vest ! 
Up,  my  men  !  and  follow 

Marion  of  the  West ! 
Strike  with  him  for  freedom  ; 

Strike  with  main  and  might, 
'Neath  the  noon  of  splendor 

'Neath  the  gloom  of  night. 
Strike  by  rock  and  roadside, 

Strike  in  wold  and  wood, 


130  THE   SOUTHERN   AMAH  AN  TH. 

By  the  shadowy  valley 
By  the  purpling  flood. 

On !  where  Morgan's  war-horse 
Thunders  in  the  van, 

God !  who  would  not  gladly  die 
Beside  that  glorious  man  ! 


01 


BY  CAPTAIN  THOKPE,  OF  KENTUCKY. 

UNCLAIMED  by  the  land  that  bore  us, 

Lost  in  the  field,  we  find 
The  brave  have  gone  before  us, 

Cowards,  are  left  behind  ! 
Then  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady, 

Here's  a  health  to  those  we  prize, 
Here's  a  toast  to  the  dead  already, 

And  here's  to  the  next  who  dies  ! 


BY  DE.    G.    W.    BAGBY,    (MOSUS   ADDUMS,)   VIRGINIA. 

TOM,  old  fellow,  I  grieve  to  see 

That  sleeve  hanging  loose  at  your  side  ; 

The  arm  you  lost  was  worth  to  me 
Every  Yankee  that  ever  died. 


THE   EMPTY   SLEEVE.  131 

But  you  don't  mind  it  at  all, 

You  swear  you've  a  beautiful  stump, 

And  laugh  at  the  damnable  ball ; 

Tom,  I  knew  you  were  always  a  trump. 

A  good  right  arm,  a  nervy  hand, 

A  wrist  as  strong  as  a  sapling  oak, 
Buried  deep  in  the  Malvern  sand — 

To  laugh  at  that,  is  a  sorry  joke. 
^Never  again  your  iron  grip 

Shall  I  feel  in  my  shrinking  palm — 
Tom,  Tom,  I  see  your  trembling  lip, 

How  on  earth  can  /  be  calm  ? 

.Well !  the  arm  is  gone,  it  is  true  ; 

But  the  one  that  is  nearest  the  heart 
Is  left — and  that's  as  good  as  two  ; 

Tom,  old  fellow,  what  makes  you  start? 
Why,  man,  she  thinks  that  empty  sleeve 

A  badge  of  honor  ;  so  do  I, 
And  all  of  us, — I  do  believe 

The  fellow  is  going  to  cry  ! 

"  She  deserves  a  perfect  man,"  you  say, 

You,  "  not  worth  her  in  your  prime  " 
Tom,  the  arm  that  has  turned  to  clay, 

Your  whole  body  has  made  sublime ; 
Eor  you  have  placed  in  the  Malvern  earth 

The  proof  and  pledge  of  a  noble  life — 
And  the  rest,  henceforward  of  higher  worth, 

Will  be  dearer  than  all  to  your  wife. 

I  see  the  people  in  the  street 

Look  at  your  sleeve  with  kindling  eyes  | 


132  THE   SOUTHERN   AMAKANTH. 

And  know  you,  Tom,  there's  naught  so  sweet 
As  homage  shown  in  mute  surmise. 

Bravely  your  arm  in  battle  strove 

Freely,  for  Freedom's  sake  you  gave  it ; 

It  has  perished,  but  a  nation's  love 
In  proud  remembrance  will  save  it. 

Go  to  your  sweetheart,  then,  forthwith — 

You're  a  fool  for  staying  so  long- 
Woman's  love  you  will  find  no  myth, 

But  a  truth,  living,  tender  and  strong. 
And  when  around  her  slender  belt 

Your  left  is  clasped  in  fond  embrace, 
Your  right  will  thrill,  as  if  it  felt, 

In  its  grave,  the  usurper's  place. 

As  I  look  through  the  coming  years 

I  see  a  one-armed  married  man ; 
A  little  woman,  with  smiles  and  tears, 

Is  helpling  as  hard  as  she  can 
To  put  on  his  coat,  pin  his  sleeve — 

Tie  his  cravat,  and  cut  his  food ; 
And  I  say,  as  these  fancies  I  weave, 

"  That  is  Tom,  and  the  woman  he  wooed." 

The  years  roll  on  and  then  I  see 

A  wedding  picture  bright  and  fair; 
I  look  closer,  and  it's  plain  to  me 

That  is  Tom  with  the  silver  hair. 
He  gives  away  the  lovely  bride, 

And  the  guests  linger  loth  to  leave 
The  house  of  him  in  whom  they  pride — 

Brave  Tom  old  with  the  empty  sleeve, 
SOUTHERN  ILLUSTRATED  NEWS. 


ENGLAND'S  NEUTRALITY.  133 


A    PAELIAMENTAKY   DEBATE. 

BY  JOHN  E.    THOMPSON,    VIRGINIA. 

.ALL  ye  who  with  credulity  tlie  whispers  hear  of  fancy, 
Or  yet  pursue  with  eagerness  Hope's  wild  extravagancy, 
Who  dream  that  England  soon  will  drop  her  long  mis 
called  Neutrality, 

And  give  us  with  a  hearty  shake,  the  hand  of  Nation 
ality, 

Read,  as  we  give,  with  little  fault  of  statement  or  omis 
sion, 

;The  next  debate  in  Parliament  on  Southern  Recogni 
tion  ; 

They're  all  so  much  alike,  indeed,  that  one  can  write  it 
off,  I  see, 

As  truly  as  the  Times  report,  without  the  gift  of  proph 
esy. 

Not  yet,  not  yet  to  interfere,  does  England  see  occasion, 

But  treats  our  good  Commissioner  with  coldness  and 
evasion ; 

Such  coldness  in  the  premises  that  really  'tis  refrig 
erant 

'To  think  that  two  long  years  ago,  she  called  us  a  bellig 
erent 

But  further  Downing  Street  is  dumb,  the  Premier  deaf 

to  reason, 
-As  deaf  as  is  the  Morning  Post,  both  in  and  out  of 

season ; 


134          THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

The  working  men  of  Lancashire  are  all  reduced  to  beg 
gary, 

And  yet  they  will  not  listen  unto  Koebuck  or  to  Greg 
ory, 

"  Or  any  other  man, '  to-day,  who  counsels  interfering, 
While  all  who  speak  on  t'other  side  obtain  a  ready 

hearing — 

As  per  example  Mr.  Bright,  that  pink  of  all  propriety. 
That  meek  and  mild  disciple  of  the  blessed  Peace 

Society. 

"Why  let  'em  fight,"  says  Mr.  Bright,  "  those  Souther 
ners  I  hate  'em, 

I  hope  the  Black  Kepublicans  will  soon  exterminate^ 
'em; 

If  Freedom  can't  Eebellion  crush,  pray  tell  me  what's 
the  use  of  her?" 

And  so  he  chuckles  o'er  the  fray  as  gleefully  as  Luci 
fer. 

Enough  of  him ;  an  abler  man  demands  our  close  atten-- 

tion — 

The  Maximus  Apollo  of  strict  Non  Intervention. 
With  pitiless  severity,  though  decorous  and  calm  his-* 

tone, 
Thus  speaks  the  "  old  man  eloquent,"  the  puissant  Earl 

of  Palmerston : 

"What  though  the  land  run  red  with  blood:  what, 

though  the  lurid  flashes 
Of  cannon  light  at  dead  of  night,  a  mournful  heap  of 

ashes 


ENGLAND'S  NEUTRALITY.  135 

Where  many  an  ancient  mansion  stood  ?  what  though 

the  robber  pillages, 
The  sacred  home,  the  house  of  God,  in  twice  a  hundred 

villages  ? 

"What  though  a  fiendish,  nameless  wrong,  that  makes 
revenge  a  duty 

Is  daily  done  "  (0  Lord,  how  long)  "  to  tenderness  and 
beauty  ?"— 

(And  who  shall  tell  this  deed  of  hell,  how  deadlier  far 
a  curse  it  is 

Than  even  pulling  temples  down  and  burning  universi 
ties?) 

"Let  arts  decay,  let  millions  fall,  for  aye  let  Freedom 

perish, 
With  all  that  in  the  Western  World  men  fain   would 

love  and  cherish ; 

Let  Universal  Euin  there  become  a  sad  reality : 
We   cannot  swerve,  we  must  persevere  our  rigorous 

Neutrality. 

0,  Pam  !  Oh,  Pam !  hast  ever  read  what's  writ  in  holy 
pages, 

How  blessed  the  Peacemakers  are,  God's  children  of 
the  Ages  ? 

Perhaps  you  think  the  promise  sweet  was  nothing  but 
a  platitude ; 

'Tis  clear  that  you  have  no  concern  in  that  divine  beati 
tude. 

But   "hear!   hear!   hear!"   another  peer,  that  mighty 

man  of  muscle, 
Is  on  his  legs,  what  slender  pegs !   ye  noble  Earl  of 

Russell ; 


136  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Thus  might  lie  speak,  did  not  of  speech  his  shrewd  re 
serve  the  folly  see, 

And  thus  unfold  the  subtle  plan  of  England's  secret 
policy : 

u  John  Bright  was  right !  Yes,  let  'em  fight,  these  fools 
across  the  water, 

'Tis  no  affair  at  all  of  ours,  their  carnival  of  slaughter! 

The  Christian  world  indeed  may  say  we  ought  not  to 
allow  it,  sirs, 

But  still  'tis  music  in  our  ears,  this  roar  of  Yankee  how 
itzers. 

"A  word  or  two   of  sympathy,  that   costs  us  not  a 

penny, 
We  give  the  gallant  Southerners,  the  few  against  the 

many  ; 

We  say  their  noble  fortitude,  of  final  triumph  presages, 
And  praise  in  Blackwoods  Magazine,  Jeff  Davis  and  his 

messages — 

"  Of  course  we  claim  the   shining  fame   of  glorious 

Stonewall  Jackson, 

Who  typifies  the  English  race,  a  sterling  Anglo-Saxon  ; 
To  bravest  song  his  deeds  belong,  to  Clio  and  Melpo- 


(And  why  not  for  a  British  stream  demand  the  Chicka- 
hominy  ?) 

"  But  for  the  cause  in  which  he  fell  we  cannot  lift  a  fin 
ger, 

'Tis  idle  on  the  question  any  longer  here  to  linger ; 

'Tis  true  the  South  has  freely  bled,  her  sorrows  are 
Homeric,  oh  ! 

Her  case  is  like  to  his  of  old  who  journeyed  unto  Jer 
icho — 


ENGLAND'S  NEUTRALITY.  137 

*'  The  thieves  have  stripped  and  bruised,  although  as 

yet  they  have  not  bound  her  ; 
We'd  like  to   see   her  slay  'em  all  to  right  and  left 

around  her; 
We  shouldn't  cry  in  Parliament  if  Lee  should  cross  the 

Karitan, 
But  England  never  yet  was  known  to  play  the  Good 

Samaritan. 

And  so  we  pass  to  t'other  side  and  leave  them  to  their 
glory, 

To  give  new  proofs  of  manliness,  new  scenes  for  song 
and  story ; 

These  honeyed  words  of  compliment  may  possibly  bam 
boozle  'em, 

But  ere  we  intervene,  you  know,  we'll  see  'em  in — Jer 
usalem. 

'"  Yes,  let  'em  fight,  till  both  are  brought  to  hopeless 

desolation, 
Till  wolves  troop  round  the  cottage  door,  in  one  and 

t'other  nation, 
Till  worn  and  broken  down,  the  South  shall  prove  no 

more  refractory, 
And  rust   eats  up  the  silent  looms  of  every  Yankee 

factory — 

•"  Till  bursts  no  more  the  cotton  boll  o'er  fields  of  Caro 
lina, 

And  fills  with  snowy  flosses  the  duskey  hands  of  Dinah  ; 

Till  war  has  dealt  its  final  blow,  and  Mr.  Seward's 
knavery 

Has  put  an  end  in  all  the  land  to  freedom  and  to 
slavery. 


138  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

"  The  grim  Bastile,  tlie  rack  the  wheel,  without  remorse 
or  pity, 

May  flourish  with  the  guillotine  in  every  Yankee  city, 

No  matter  should  Old  Abe  revive  the  brazen  bull  of 
Phalaris, 

"Pis  no  concern  at  all  of  ours  " — (sensation  in  the  gal 
leries.) 

"So  shall  our  'merrie  England'  thrive  on  trans- Atlan 
tic  troubles, 

While  India  on  her  distant  plains  her  crop  of  cotton 
doubles ; 

And  just  so  long  as  North  or  South  shall  show  the 
least  vitality 

"We  cannot  swerve,  we  must  preserve  our  rigorous 
Neutrality." 

Your  speech,  my  lord,  might  well  become  a  Saxon  leg 
islator, 

When  the  "  fine  old  English  gentleman  "  lived  in  a  state 
of  natur', 

When  vikings  quaffed  from  human  skulls  their  fiery 
draughts  of  honey  mead, 

Long,  long  before  the  barons  bold  met  tyrant  John  at 
Kunnymed( 


But  'tis  a  speech  so  plain,  my  lord,  that  all  may  under 

stand  it, 
And   so   we  quickly  turn  again  to  fight  the  Yankee 

bandit, 

Convinced  that  we  shall  fairly  win  at  last  oar  nationality, 
Without   the   help   of  Britain's   arm — in  spite  of  her 

Neutrality. 
SOUTHERN  ILLUSTRATED  NEWS. 


SCENES.  139 


BY  PAUL  H.    HATNE. 


OH,  God  !  if  gifted  with  an  angel's  flight, 
And  somewhat  of  an  angel's  mystic  sight, 
'Twere  ours  to  pass  this  bleeding  country  over 
"What  visions  would  those  piercing  orbs  discover  I 
"What  horrors  branded  on  the  shrinking  brain 
Would  burn  and  burn  like  purgatorial  pain, 
Thrilling  throughout  our  consciousness  to  rise 
In  nightmare  terror  on  our  sleeping  eyes  ! 
Nay  !  though  our  flight  be  fancy's  —  and  our  view 
But  owns  the  magic  of  an  insight  true, 
We  well  may  pause  and  tremble  as  we  see 
Eevived,  in  all  their  shame  and  infamy, 
JThe  cruel  orgies  of  that  later  day 
Of  Borne,  which  knew  the  Borgia's  cruel  sway 
Ere  Rome  sunk  to  perdition  -  ! 
But  with  these 

Are  mingled  tenderer  scenes  and  images, 
Mournful  as  any  Shakspeare  pitying  wrought 
On  the  dim  canvas  of  pathetic  thought. 

Farewells,  whereat  no  scorching  tears  are  shed, 
Mute  claspings  of  the  brave,  untimely  dead, 
Calm  hero  bearings,  though  the  heart  be  broke 
And  the  soul  withered  at  the  lightning's  stroke 
Of  supreme  grief!  unconscious  children  playing 
Despite  a  father's  curse,  a  mother's  praying  ; 
Fair  maidens,  smiling  on  despair,  to  make 


140  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

A  lover's  death-bed  softer  for  love's  sake, 
And  all  home's  fragrant  ministries  that  bring 
Full  blosoms  and  odors  (like  a  sudden  spring 
Born  in  mid  winter)  to  the  sufferer's  room, 
"Wafting  both  light  and  sweetness  through  the  gloom 

Yet  o'er  it  all,  fierce  tumult  and  false  calm, 
Unseen,  but  sovereign,  rules  the  dread  "I  AM  !" 
His  prescience  guides  the  complex  threads  of  FATE, 
His  mercy  will  not  leave  us  desolate, 
For  in  our  blood,  our  tears,  and  pain  and  sorrow, 
Hest  the  rich  germs  of  some  sublime  to-morrow  1 
SOUTHEBN  ILLUSTRATED  NEWS. 


1863. 

BY  HENRY   TIMKOD,    SOUTH  CAROLINA. 

SPRING,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air 
Which  dwells  with  all  things  fair, 
Spring,  with  her  golden  suns  and  silver  rain, 
Is  with  us  once  again. 

Out  in  the  lonely  woods  the  jasmine  burns 
Its  fragrant  lamps,  and  turns 
Into  a  royal  court  with  green  festoons 
The  banks  of  dark  lagoons. 

In  the  deep  heart  of  every  forest  tree 
The  blood  is  all  a-glee, 


SPRING,  1863.  141 

And  there's  a  look  about  the  leafless  bowers, 
As  if  they  dreamed  of  flowers. 

Yet  still  on  every  side  we  trace  the  hand 
Of  winter  in  the  land, 

Save  where  the  maple  reddens  on  the  lawn, 
Flushed  by  the  season's  dawn  ; 

Or  where,  like  those  strange  semblances  we  find 

That  age  to  childhood  bind, 

The  elm  puts  on,  as  if  Nature's  scorn 

The  brown  of  Autumn  corn. 

As  yet  the  turf  is  dark,  although  you  know 
That  not  a  span  below, 
A  thousand  germs  are  creeping  to  the  light, 
And  soon  will  glad  the  sight. 

Already,  here  and  there,  on  frailest  stems 
Appear  some  azure  gems 
Small  as  might  deck  upon  a  gala  day 
The  forehead  of  a  fay. 

4i 

In  gardens  you  may  see,  amid  the  dearth, 
The  crocus  breaking  earth  ; 
And  near  the  snowdrop's  tender  white  and  green, 
The  violet  in  its  screen. 

But  many  gleams  and  shadows  needs  must  pass 
Along  the  budding  grass, 
And  weeks  go  by,  before  the  enamored  South 
Shall  kiss  the  rose's  rnouth. 


142  THE   SOUTHERN  AMAKANTH. 

Still  there's  a  sense  of  blossoms  yet  unborn 
In  the  sweet  airs  of  morn  ; 
One  almost  looks  to  find  the  very  street 
Grow  purple  at  his  feet 

At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating  by. 
And  brings,  you  know  not  why, 
A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await, 
Before  a  palace  gate 

Some  wondrous  pageant,  and  you  scarce  would  start 
If  from  a  beech's   heart 

A  blue-eyed  Dryad  stepping  forth  should  say: 
"  Behold  me  !  I  am  May  !" 

Ah  !  who  could  couple  thoughts  of  war  and  crime 
"With  such  a  time ! 

Who  in  the  west  wind's  aromatic  breath 
Could  hear  the  call  of  Death  ! 

Yet  not  more  surely  shall  the  Spring  awake 
The  voice  of  wood  and  brake 
Than  she  shall  rouse  for  all  her  tranquil  charms, 
A  million  men  to  arms  ^ 

There  shall  be  deeper  hues  upon  her  plains 
Than  all  the  sun-lit  rains, 
And  every  gladdening  influence  around, 
Can  summon  from  the  ground. 

Oh !  standing  on  this  desecrated  mould, 
Methinks  that  I  behold, 
Lifting  her  bloody  daisies  up  to  God, 
Spring,  kneeling  on  the  sod, 


THE   IRREPRESSIBLE    CONFLICT.  143 

And  calling  with  the  voice  of  all  her  rills 
Upon  the  ancient  hills. 
To  fall  and  crush  the  tyrants  and  the  slaves, 
Who  turn  her  meads  to  graves. 


(For  my  only  son,  aged  fifteen,  now  in  the  seruice  of  his  country.) 

BY   A   SOUTHEBN   MOTHEB. 

GOD  nless  my  daring,  venturous  boy 

Where'er  his  feet  may  stray. 
God  bless  the  sacred,  righteous  cause 

For  which  he  went  away ; 
God  bless  the  little  arm  round  which 

My  wristlet  went  not  tight, 
Strengthen  it,  Lord,  till  it  becomes 

A  David's  in  the  fight. 


o 


So  young,  so  bright,  so  fair,  so  brave, 

To  Thee,  oh  God  above, 
I  leave  the  charge  to  shield  and  save 

The  idol  of  my  love. 
One  more  to  battle  for  the  right 

Of  free  men  to  be  free, 
That  hero's  heart  and  childlike  form 

I  dedicate  to  Thee ! 

MEMPHIS,  July  26th,  1864. 

METROPOLITAN  KECOBD. 


144  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 


BY  JAMES  BAEBON  HOPE. 


WHAT  !  ye  hold  yourselves  as  freemen?' 

Tyrants  love  just  such,  as  ye  ! 
Go !  abate  your  lofty  manner  ! 

Write  upon  your  State's  old  banner, 
"  A  furore  Normanorum 
Liber  a  nos,  0  Domine  /'' 

Sink  before  the  federal  altar, 

Each  one  low  on  bended  knee, 
Pray  with  lips  that  sob  and  falter, 
This  prayer  from  the  coward's  psalter, — 
"  A  furore  Normanorum 
Libera  nos,  0  Domine  /" 

But  ye  hold  that  quick  repentance 

In  the  Northern  mind  will  be ; 
This  repentance  comes  no  sooner 
Than  the  robbers'  did,  at  Duna  I 
"  A  furore  Normanorum 
Libera  nos,  0  Domine  /" 

He  repented  him  : — the  Bishop 
Gave  him  absolution  free ; 

Poured  upon  him  sacred  chrism 

In  the  pomp  of  his  baptism. 

"  A  furore  Normanorum 
Libera  nos,  0  Domine  /" 

He  repented ;  then  he  sickened  I 
Was  he  pining  for  the  sea  ? 


LIBEEA  NOS,    0  DOMINE.  145 

In  extremis  was  he  shriven, 
The  viaticum  was  given, 

"  A  furore  Normanorum 

Libera  nos,  0  Domine  /" 

Then  the  old  cathedral's  choir 

Took  the  plaintive  minor  key ; 
"With  the  host  upraised  before  him, 
Down  the  marble  aisles  they  bore  him  j 

"  A  furore  Normanorum 

Libera  nos,  0  Domine  /" 

While  the  bishop  and  the  abbot — 

All  the  monks  of  high  degree, 
Chanting  praise  to  the  Madonna 
Came  to  do  him  Christian  honor  I 
"  A  furore  Normanorum 
Libera  nos,  0  Domine  /" 

Now  the  miserere's  cadence, 

Takes  the  voices  of  the  sea ; 
As  the  music-billows  quiver 
See  the  dead  freebooter  shiver ! 

"  A  furore   Normanorum 

Libera  nos,  0  Domine  /" 

Is  it  that  these  intonations 

Thrill  him  thus  from  head  to  knee  ? 
Lo,  his  cerements  burst  asunder, 
'Tis  a  sight  for  fear  and  wonder ! 
"  A  furore  Normanorum 
Libera  nos,  0  Domine  /" 

Fierce  he  stands  before  the  bishop, 
Dark  as  shape  of  Destinie, 


146  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Hark  I  a  shriek  ascends  appalling, — 
Down  the  prelate  goes — dead  falling  I 

"  A  furore  Normanorum 

Liber  a  nos,  0  Domine  /" 

Hastings  lives !     He  was  but  feigning  ! 

What !     Eepentant  ?     Never  he  ! 

Down  he  smites  the  priests  and  friars, 

And  the  city  lights  with  fires  ! 

"A.  fur  we  Normanorum 

Liber  a  nos,  0  Domine  /" 

Ah !  the  children  and  the  maidens 

'Tis  in  vain  they  strive  to  flee ! 
Where  the  white-haired  priests  lie  bleeding 
Is  no  place  for  woman's  pleading, 
"  A  furore  Normanorum 
Liberanos,  0  Domine!" 

Louder  swells  the  fearful  tumult- 
Pallid  Death  holds  revelrie ! 
Dies  the  organ's  mighty  clamor 
By  the  horseman's  iron  hammer ! 
"A  furore  Normanorum 
Libera  nos,  0  Domine  /" 

So  they  thought  that  he'd  repented  I 

Had  they  nailed  him  to  the  tree, 
He  had  not  deserved  their  pity, 
And  they  had  not  lost  their  city. 
"  A  furore  Normanorum 
Libera  nos,  0  Domine!" 

For  the  moral  in  this  story, 
Which  is  plain  as  truth  can  be, 


GATHERING    SONG.  147 

If  we  trust  the  North's  relenting, 
We  shall  shriek — too  late  repenting, 

"  A  furore  Normanorum 

Libera  nos,  0  Domine  /  "  * 


Am — Bonnie  Blv£,  Flag. 

BY   ANNIE   CHAMBERS   KETCH.TJM. 

OOME,  brothers !  rally  for  the  right ! 

The  bravest  of  the  brave 
Sends  forth  her  ringing  battle-cry, 

Beside  the  Atlantic  wave  ! 
She  leads  the  way  in  honor's  path ! 

Come,  brothers  near  and  far, 
Come  rally  round  the  Bonnie  Bine  Flag 

That  bears  a  single  star ! 

We've  borne  the  Yankee  trickery, 

The  Yankee  gibe  and  sneer, 
Till  Yankee  insolence  and  pride 

Know  neither  shame  nor  fear ; 
But  ready  now  with  shot  and  steel, 

Their  brazen  front  to  mar, 
"We  hoist  aloft  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag 

That  bears  a  single  star ! 


*  For  this  incident  in  the  life  of  the  sea-robber,  Hastings,  see  Mil- 
man's  History  of  Latin  Christianity. 


148  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Now  Georgia  marches  to  the  front, 

And  close  behind  her  come 
Her  sisters  by  the  Mexique  Sea 

With  pealing  trump  and  drum ! 
Till,  answering  back  from  hill  and  glen 

The  rallying  cry  afar, 
A  NATION  hoists  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag 

That  bears  a  single  star ! 

By  every  stone  in  Charleston  Bay, 

By  each  beleaguered  town, 
We  swear  to  rest  not  night  or  day, 

But  hunt  the  tyrants  down  ! 
Till,  bathed  in  valor's  holy  blood, 

The  gazing  world  afar 
Shall  greet  with  shouts  the  Bonnie  Blue  Flag, 

That  bears  the  Cross  and  Star ! 


•0    I 


On  being  waked  by  its  song,  near  the  camp,  in  the  dusk  of  morning. 

BY.     E.    F.     W. 

SWEET  bird  that  thrill'st  with  early  note 

The  hedge-row  charred  and  sere, 
Why  swells  and  throbs  thy  downy  throat 

With  spring-tide  raptures  here, 
Where  bristle  men  instead  of  corn 

And  o'er  each  belted  line, 
The  glimmering  blade  shoots  up  at  morn 

To  harsher  calls  than  thine. 


TO   A  MOCKING  BIKD.  149 

The  transitory  mists  that  smoke 

Along  yon  river  far, 
Yon  earth-born  clouds  of  pine  and  oak 

Await  the  storm  of  war  ; 
Where  "bugle-charge  and  rifle-din 

And  cannon's  deadly  boom, 
Shall  wreck  thy  bowers  of  jessamine, 

And  beds  of  violet  bloom. 


Before  the  battle-blasts  arise 

Go,  seek  that  halcyon  west, 
And  charm  the  spot  where  Rosa  lies — 

My  baby  at  her  breast — 
Where,  if  thy  modulated  flute 

Prolong  the  strain,  a  glee 
Of  bright-eyed  children,  wonder-mute 

Shall  wake  to  honor  thee. 


The  pride  of  India  scents  the  grove, 

With  perfume  rich  and  faint — 
'So  breathes  thy  chanted  peace  and  love, 

And  musical  complaint 
A  painful  sweet — their  freighted  lays — 

The  charm  then  comes  and  goes — 
The  soldier's  dream  of  happy  days 

And  nights  of  soft  repose. 


But  if  thou  com'st  to  cheer  my  soul, 
With  hints  of  what  shall  be — 

A  prophet  with  a  dusky  stole 
And  pipe  of  jubilee — 


150  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Let  not  amid  these  glooms  of  war, 

Thy  holy  matins  cease, 
Till  thou  shalt  prove  the  morning  star 

That  leads  the  dawn  of  Peace  ! 

CAMP  GADBEBBT,  JAMES  ISLAND,  March,  1863. 
SOUTHERN  ILLUSTBATED  NEWS. 


BY  SUSAN  AKCHEB  TALLEY,  VIEGINIA. 

AWAY  I  my  steed  in  thy  joyous  pride, 

"With  thy  flashing  eye  and  thy  bounding  stride  I 

Away !  like  a  spirit  from  bondage  freed, 

As  we  spurn  the  earth  in  our  rushing  speed, 

"While  river,  and  woodland,  and  shore,  and  stream,* 

Are  floating  by  as  an  airy  dream. 

Light  as  the  winds  that  around  us  blow, 
Glad  as  the  waves  on  the  beach  below, 
Free  as  the  flow  of  thine  own  bright  mane, 
"We  bound  along  the  grassy  plain  ; 
And  I  feel  my  pulses  with  gladness  fill, 
And  a  newer  life  through  my  being  thrill. 

Oh  !  mournful  thoughts  that  have  dimmed  my  brow ;: 

Oh !  sad  forebodings,  where  are  ye  now  ? 

What  are  the  trials  for  which  I  care  ? 

"What  is  the  danger  I  would  not  dare  ? 

Where  duty  summons  or  courage  leads, 

Daring  and  doing  a  hero's  deeds. 


A  FAREWELL  TO   HOPE.  151 

Oh  !  for  the  din  of  the  stormy  fight, 
Now,  in  the  flush  of  my  conscious  might ! 
How  would  I  charge  on  the  flying  foe, 
Laying  the  ranks  of  invaders  low — 
And  proudly  trust  in  my  sorest  need, 
To  my  shining  blade,  and  my  noble  steed ! 
SOUTHEBN  ILLUSTEATED  NEWS. 


BY  JOHN  B.    THOMPSON,    YIEGINIA. 

"  HATS  off"  in  the  crowd,  "  Present  arms  "  in  the  line  ! 
Let  the  standards  all  bow  and  the  sabres  incline  — 
Roll,  drums,  the  Rogue's  March,  while  the  conqueror 

goes, 

"Whose  eyes  have  seen  only  "  the  backs  of  his  foes  "  — 
Through  a  thicket  of  laurel,  a  whirlwind  of  cheers, 
His  vanishing  form  from  our  gaze  disappears  ; 
Henceforth  with  the  savage  Dacotahs  to  cope, 
iit  evasit,  erupit  —  John  Pope. 


He  came  out  of  the  West,  like  the  young  Lochinvar, 
Compeller  of  fate  and  controller  of  war, 
Videre  et  vincere,  simply  to  see, 

And  straightway  to  conquer  Hill,  Jackson  and  Lee  ; 
And  old  Abe  at  the  "White  House,  like  Kilmansegg 

pere, 

With  a  monkeyish  grin  and  beatified  air, 
"  Seemed  washing  his  hands  with  invisible  soap," 
As  with  eager  attention  he  listened  to  Pope. 


152  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

He  came — and  the  poultry  was  swept  by  his  sword, 

Spoons,  liquors,  and  furniture  went  by  the  board; 

He  saw,  at  a  distance,  the  rebels  appear, 

And  "  rode  to  the  front,"  which  was  strangely  the  rear 

He  conquered  — truth,  decency,  honor,  full  soon, 

Pest,  pilferer,  puppy,  pretender,  poltroon  ! 

And  was  fain  from  the  scene  of  his  triumphs  to  slope, 

Sure  there  never  was  fortunate  hero  like  Pope. 

He  lias  left  as  his  shining  example  to  note, 
And  Stuart  has  captured  his  uniform  coat ; 
But  'tis  puzzling  enough,  as  his  deeds  we  recall, 
To  tell  on  whose  shoulders  his  mantle  should  fall ; 
While  many  may  claim  to  deserve  it,  at  least, 
From  Hunter,  the  Hound,  down  to  Butler  the  Beast, 
None  else,  we  can  say,  without  risking  the  trope, 
But  himself  can  be  parallel  ever  to  Pope. 

Like  his  namesake  the  poet,  of  genius  and  fire, 
He  gives  new  expression  and  force  to  the  lyre  ; 
But  in  one  little  matter  they  differ,  the  two, 
And  differ,  indeed,  very  widely,  'tis  true — 
While  his  verses  gave  great  Alexander  his  fame, 
'Tis  our  hero's  re- verses  accomplish  the  same  ; 
And  fate  may  decree  that  the  end  of  a  rope, 
Shall  award  yet  his  highest  position  to  Pope. 


THE   TWO   ARMIES.  153 


BY  HENBY   TIMKOD,    SOUTH   CAROLINA. 

Two  armies  stand  enrolled  beneath 
The  banner  with  the  starry  wreath  ; 
One  facing  battle,  blight  and  blast, 
'Through  twice  a  hundred  fields  has  passed ; 
Its  deeds  against  a  ruffian  foe, 
Stream,  valley,  hill  and  mountain  know, 
Till  every  wind  that  sweeps  the  land 
•Goes  glory-laden  from  the  strand. 

The  other,  with  a  narrower  scope, 
Yet  led  by  not  less  grand  a  hope, 
Hath  won  perhaps  a  prouder  place, 
(Tribes  march  beneath  its  glittering  sign,) 
And  wears  its  fame  with  meeker  grace. 
Fond  mothers  swell  the  lovely  line, 
And  many  a  sweetheart  hides  her  blush 
In  the  young  patriot's  generous  flush. 

No  breeze  of  battle  ever  fanned 

The  colors  of  that  tender  band  ; 

Its  office  is  beside  the  bed. 

Where  throbs  some  sick  or  wounded  head. 

It  does  not  court  the  soldier's  tomb, 

But  plies  the  needle  and  the  loom  ; 

And,  by  a  thousand  peaceful  deeds, 

Supplies  a  struggling  nation's  needs. 

Nor  is  that  army's  gentle  might, 

Unfelt  amid  the  deadly  fight ; 

It  nerves  the  son's,  the  husband's  hands, 

It  points  the  lover's  fearless  brand  ; 


154  THE.  SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

It  thrills  tlie  languid,  warms  the  cold. 
Gives  even  new  courage  to  the  bold  ; 
And  sometimes  lifts  the  veriest  clod 
To  own  its  lofty  trust  in  God. 

When  Heaven  shall  blow  the  trump  of  peace, 

And  bid  this  weary  warfare  cease, 

Their  several  missions  nobly  done, 

The  triumph  grasped  and  freedom  won — 

Both  armies  from  their  toils  at  rest 

Alike  may  claim  the  victor's  crest, 

But  each  shall  see  its  dearest  prize 

Gleam  softly  from  the  other's  eyes. 

SOUTHEBN  ILLUSTBATED  NEWS. 


ito  gpiifo 

BY   PAUL   H.    HAYNES,    SOUTH    CAROLINA. 

THE  early  spring-time  faintly  flushed  the  earth, 
And  in  the  woods,  and  by  their  favorite  stream 
The  fair,  wild  roses  blossomed  modestly 
Above  the  wave  that  wooed  them :  there  at  eve, 
Philip  had  brought  the  woman  that  he  loved, 
And  told  his  love  and  bared  his  burning  heart 
She,  Constance, —  the  shy  sun-gleams  trembling  oft, 
Though  dewy  leaves  upon  her  golden  hair, 
Made  him  no  answer, — tapped  her  pretty  foot, 
And  seemed  to  muse  :  a  To-morrow  I  depart," 
Said  Philip,  sadly,  "  for  wild  fields  of  war — 
Shall  I  go,  girl,  with  love's  invisible  mail, 
Stronger  than  mortal  armor,  or,  all  stripped 
Of  love  and  hope,  march  reckless  unto  death  ?'* 


THE   LITTLE   WHITE   GLOVE.  155 

A  soft  mist  filled  her  eyes,  and  overflowed 
In  sudden  rain  of  passion,  as  she  stretched 
Her  delicate  hand  to  his,  and  plighted  troth, 
"With  lips  more  rosy  than  the  sun-bathed  flowers ; 
And  Philip  pressed  the  dear  hand  fervently, 
Wherefrom  in  happy  mood,  he  gently  drew 
A  small  white  glove,  and  ere  she  guessed  his  will, 
Clipped  lightly  from  her  forehead  one  golden  curlr 
And  bound  the  glove,  and  placed  it  next  his  heart 

"Now  I  am  safe,"  cried  Philip,  "this  pure  charm 

Is  proof  against  all  hazard  or  mischance  ! 

Here,  yea !  unto  this  self-same  spot  I  vow 

To  bring  it  stainless  back ; — and  you  shall  wear 

This  little  glove  upon  our  marriage  eve  !" 

And  Constance  heard  him,  smiling  through  her  tears.. 

Another  spring-time  faintly  flushed  the  earth, 

And  in  the  woods,  and  by  their  favorite  stream, 

The  fair,  wild  roses  blossomed  modestly 

Above  the  wave  that  wooed  them : — there  at  eve 

Came  a  pale  woman  with  wild,  wandering  eyes, 

And  tangled,  gold  n  ringlets,  and  weak  steps 

Tottering  towards  the  streamlet's  rippling  marge, 

She  seemed  phantasmal,  shadowy,  like  the  forms 

By  moonlight  conjured  up  from  a  place  of  graves ; 

There  crouching  o'er  the  stream,  she  laved  and  laved 

Some  object  in  it,  with  a  strained  regard, 

And  muttered  fragments  of  distempered  words, 

Whereof  were  these :  "  He  vowed  to  bring  it  back, 

The  love-charm  that  I  gave  him — my  white  glove — 

Stainless  and  whole  !     He  has  not  kept  his  oath  ! 

Oh  !  Philip  !  Philip  !  have  you  cast  rne  off — 

OIF,  like  this  worthless  thing  you  send  me  home, 


156  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Tattered  and  mildewed  ?     Look  you  !  what  a  rent, 
Right  through  the  palm  !     It  cannot  be  my  glove  ! — 
And  look  again  I  what  horrid  stain  is  here ! 
My  glove !  you  placed  it  next  your  heart,  and  swore 
To  keep  it  safe,  and  on  this  self-same  spot, 
Eeturn  it  to  me,  on  our  marriage  eve ; 
And  now — and  now — I  know  'tis  not  my  glove, — 
Yet  Philip,  sweet !  it  was  a  cruel  jest, 
You  surely  did  not  mean  to  fright  me  thus  ? 
For  hark  you !  as  I  laved  the  loathsome  thing, 
To  see  what  stain  defiled  it — (do  not  smile, 
I  feel  that  I  am  foolish,  foolish  Philip — ) 
But  God  of  Heaven !  I  dreamed  that  stain  was  Uoodl" 
SOUTHERN  ILLUSTRATED  NEWS. 


Post  number  one: — "All's  well!" — Post  number  two:  "All's  well!" 
and  so  the  assuring  cry  goes  the  circuit  of  the  camp.— OFFICER'S 

NOTE-BOOK. 

BY  MRS.    MARGARET  J.    PRESTON.    VIRGINIA. 

"  ALL'S  WELL,: — How  the  musical  sound 

Is  pleasantly  smiting  the  ear, 
As  the  sentinel  paces  his  round 

And  carols  his  tidings  of  cheer  ! 
Half  startled  the  soldier  awakes, 

Recalling  his  senses  that  roam  ; 
'Tis  but  for  a  moment  it  breaks 

On  the  dream  he  was  dreaming  of  home : 
"  All's  well !" 


"ALL'S  WELL."  157 

"  All's  well !"— Through  the  lengthening  lines 

Each  sentry  re-echoes  the  word, 
And  faint  through  yon  forest  of  pines, 

The  distant  responses  are  heard : 
On  the  marge  of  the  nebulous  night, 

A  weary,  reiterate  sigh, 
It  ripples,  then  vanishes  quite 

In  the  infinite  depths  of  the  sky. 

"All's  well  I" 

"All's  well !''— In  the  battle  of  life, 

Does  my  soul  like  a  sentinel  stand, 
Prepared  to  encounter  the  strife 

With  well  burnished  weapon  in  hand  ? 
While  the  senses  securely  repose, 

And  doubt  and  temptation  have  room, 
Does  the  clear  eye  of  conscience  unclose  ? 

Does  she  listen,  and  hear  through  the  gloom, — 
"All's  well!" 

"  All's  well !"  Can  I  echo  the  word? 

Does  faith  wield  supremest  control  ? 
Have  its  tender  persuasions  been  heard 

In  the  questionless  depths  of  my  soul  ? 
Then  fear  not :  the  conflicts,  the  scars, 

The  deadly  death-struggle  all  past, 
Clear  voices,  that  fall  from  the  stars, 

Will  herald  thee  victor  at  last — 

"All's  well  I 

THE  LAND  WE  LOVE. 


158  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


BY  EDWARD   L.    WARNER,    M.    D.,    NOBTH   CAROLINA. 

FROM  the  hills  of  the  "West  to  the  shores  of  the  sea, 
From  the  yellow  Koanoke  to  the  distant  Pedee, 
A  wild  wail  of  sorrow  ascendeth  on  high, 
For  the  heroes  who  bleed  and  the  martyrs  who  die. 

The  hearts  of  our  fathers  are  breaking  with  pain, 
And  the  tears  of  our  mothers  descending  like  rain, 
For  the  loved  and  the  lost  who  homeward  no  more 
Return  from  the  field  so  red  with  their  gore. 

That  banner  of  ours  which  so  proudly  hath  flown 
"Where  the  demon  of  carnage  claimed  all  us  his  own> 
Now  droops  in  its  gloom,  while  the  cypress  is  seen 
Entwined  with  the  laurels  on  its  glittering  sheen. 

The  foemen  exult  as  they  bury  the  slain 
Who  fell  in  the  charge  on  that  terrible  plain  ; 
For  Carolina's  brave  sons — the  pride  of  the  South  — 
Lie  covered  with  glory  at  the  dread  cannon's  mouth. 

Ah !  well  may  they  gloat  o'er  the  work  they  have  done, 
And  boast  of  the  field  they  so  dearly  have  won, 
When  the  hearts  of  such  heroes  forever  are  still 
As  fought  at  Manassas  and  Malvern's  proud  hill  j 

And  at  Bethel  and  Sharpsburg,  all  reckless  of  death, 
Came  down  on  the  foe  like  the  hurricane's  breath, 
And  scattered  his  legions  o'er  mountain  and  lea, 
As  the  leaves  of  the  forest  or  the  foam  of  the  sea. 


THE   BROKEN   SWOKD.  159 

But  hark  !  as  we  mourn  for  the  "  good  and  the  true," 
For  Marshall,  Burgwin  and  the  brave  Pettigrew, 
Through  forest  and  city,  o'er  river  and  plain, 
A  wild  cry  for  vengeance  re-echoes  again. 

For  the  noble  old  State,  thank  God  for  the  sight  I 
Is  burning  and  arming  once  more  for  the  fight ; 
And,  dashing  the  tear  from  her  sorrowing  eye, 
By  Jehovah  she  swears  to  conquer  or  die ! 

Proud  men  of  the  North,  from  the  rebels  ye  spurn 
A  lesson  of  blood  you  will  speedily  learn  ; 
And  though  jubilant  now,  beware  I  oh,  beware  ! 
For  your  boastings  shall  turn  to  wails  of  despair. 


<  BY   WALKEB   MERIWETHEK  BELL. 

"  No,  never  shall  this  trusty  glaive, 

Which  I  so  long  have  borne  ; 
Be  grasped  by  hands  less  true  or  brave, 

Or  coward's  side  adorn. 

Too  oft  in  war  its  silver  beam, 

True  men  have  followed  far ; 
As  thro'  the  battle  storm  its  gleam 

Flashed  like  a  falling  star. 

Dear  hands  have  bound  it  to  my  side, 

While  struggling  to  repress 
Unbidden  tears,  and  sweet  lips  cried, 

"Go  love,  thy  cause  is  West !" 

*  Suggested  by  an  incident  which  occurred  after  the  surrender  of 
Port  Donelson. 


160  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

And  often  in  Ms  childish  joy 

Along  the  shining  blade, 
The  dimpled  fingers  of  my  boy 

In  artless  wonder  strayed. 

Then  think  you  I  could  lightly  fling 
At  some  proud  foeman's  feet, 

A  sword  round  which  rich  memories  cling- 
So  sacred  and  so  sweet  ? 

No,  rather  let  it  evermore 
Best  'neath  thy  rolling  flood, 

Oh  stream,  that  laves  my  native  shore, 
Now  darkly  stained  with  blood !" 

Then  proudly  turning  from  them,  he, 

Unsheathing  as  he  spoke 
The  hallowed  blade,  across  his  knee 

The  tempered  steel  he  broke. 

And  far  into  the  azure  stream 
The  glittering  fragments  threw, 

And  sternly  watched  their  last  faint  gleam 
Sink  glimmering  from  his  view. 

Whate'er  he  felt,  in  tear  or  sigh 
Not  there  he  sought  relief — 

It  was  not  for  a  foeman's  eye 
To  gaze  upon  his  grief. 

Eoll  on,  thou  river  glad  and  free, 

Forever  pure  and  deep  ; 
A  stainless  hand  has  given  to  thee 

A  holy  trust  to  keep  ! 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  SPOILER  161 

Thou  may'st  have  treasures  rich  and  rare 

Beneath  thy  restless  wave  ; 
But  none  so  precious  canst  thou  bear 

As  that  true  soldier's  glaive  I 

METROPOLITAN  KECOED. 


OLD  GUARD. 


by  one  the  leaves  are  shaken 

From  the  tree ; 

One  by  one  our  best  are  taken, 
And  our  hopes  fall,  hope  forsaken, — 
"When,  0  God  !  wilt  thou  awaken  ? 
"When,  0  Liberty  ? 

Sinks  the  moon  behind  the  forest 

Lost  in  cloud  ; 

Darkly  thou  thy  way  explorest, 
So  e'en  when  our  need  is  sorest, 
Freedom,  thou  our  trust  ignorest, 

In  thy  bloody  shroud. 

One  by  one  our  best  are  taken, 

Hasten  we  1 

By  our  swift  curse  overtaken 
Despots'  might  shall  yet  be  shaken 
Yet  th'  Avenger  shall  awaken 

Murdered  Liberty  I 


THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


BY  JAMES  B.  RANDALL,  MARYLAND. 

EVA  sits  on  the  ottoman  there, 

Sits  by  a  Psyche  carved  in  stone, 
With  just  such  a  face  and  just  such  an  air, 

As  Esther  upon  her  throne. 

She's  sifting  lint  for  the  brave  who  bleed, 
And  I  watch  her  fingers  float  and  flow 

Over  the  linen,  as,  thread  by  thread, 
It  flakes  to  her  lap  like  snow. 

A  bracelet  clinks  on  her  delicate  wrist, 
Wrought,  as  Cellini's  were  at  Eome, 

Out  of  the  tears  of  the  Amethyst, 
And  the  wan  Yesuvian  foam. 

And  full  on  the  bauble-crest  alway — 

A  cameo  image  keen  and  fine — 
Glares  thy  impetuous  knife  Corday. 

And  the  lava-locks  are  thine  ! 

I  thought  of  the  war- wolves  on  our  trail, 

Their  gaunt  fangs  sluiced  with  gouts  of  blood ; 

Till  the  Past,  in  a  dead  mesmeric  vale, 
Drooped  with  a  wizard  flood — 

Till  the  surly  blaze  through  the  iron  bars 
Shot  to  the  hearth  with  a  pang  and  cry — 

And  a  lank  howl  plunged  from  the  Champ  de  Mars 
To  the  column  of  July — 


OUE   SHIP.  163 

'Till  Corday  sprang  from  the  gem,  I  swear, 

And  tile  dove-eyed  damsel  I  knew  had  flown — • 

For  Eva  was  not  on  the  ottoman  there, 
By  the  Psyche  carved  in  stone. 

She  grew  like  a  Pythoness  flushed  with  fate, 

With  the  incantation  in  her  gaze, 
A  lip  of  scorn — an  arm  of  hate — 

And  a  dirge  of  the  "Marseillaise!" 

Eva,  the  vision  was  not  wild, 

When  wreaked  on  the  tyrants  of  the  land — 
For  you  were  transformed  to  Nemesis,  child, 

With  the  dagger  in  your  hand  ! 


BY   HENRY  L.    FLASH,    MOBILE,  ALABAMA. 

ALL  aboard  for  the  Port  of  the  Free  1 

And  every  man  sprang  aboard, 
Who  had  any  hope  in  the  days  to  be, 

Or  any  faith  in  the  Lord. 

We  cut  her  loose  from  the  hulk  where  she  lay, 

And  started  her  out  to  sea, 
With  never  a  chart  of  the  perilous  way 

Which  leads  to  the  Port  of  the  Free. 

For  four  long  years  she  has  struggled  and  tossed 

On  the  foam  of  the  fiery  sea,^ 
And  many  a  gallant  sailor  lost 

On  the  way  to  the  Port  of  the  Free. 

*  Special  contribution. 


164  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

She  has  felt  the  force  of  many  a  blow — 
She  has  struck  on  many  a  rock, 

But  she  plunges  on  as  the  echoes  do 
After  the  thunder-shock. 

The  man  at  the  helm  is  brave  and  strong. 

Captain  and  pilot,  he — 
Sworn  to  guide  our  vessel  along 

Till  she  reaches  the  Port  of  the  Free. 

He  gives  no  heed  to  crash  and  jar — 

He  fears  not  wave  or  wind — 
His  eyes  are  fixed  on  a  beacon  star 

With  never  a  look  behind ; 

For  better  to  sink  in  the  surging  sea, 
On  our  trackless,  perilous  way, 

Than  die  of  a  moral  leprosy, 
Moored  to  the  hulk  where  we  lay. 

But  we  yet  shall  reach  the  Port  of  the.  Fiee>. 

Cries  every  man  aboard, 
Who  has  any  hope  in  the  days  to  be, 

Or  any  faith  in  the  Lord  ! 


DBOWNED,   DEOWNED.  165 


HAMLET. 
BY  MBS.    CATHERINE  A,    WABFIELD,    KENTUCKY. 

IN  the  dark  Confederate  sea 

Best  the  heroes  of  our  race ; 
-O'er  them  waves  are  sweeping  free, 

And  the  pearls  of  ocean  trace 
Temples,  where  the  helm  should  be, 

"Worn  with  high  heroic  grace. 
'Twas  a  desperate  strife  at  best, 
And  they  perished — let  them  rest 

In  their  silent  burial  place  ! — 

When  our  divers,  dreading  nought, 

Plunged  to  depths,  through  ocean  whirls, 
.It  was  all  their  hope  and  thought, 

To  bear  back  those  precious  pearls, 
Passion  freighted,  Beauty  fraught, 

Such  as  gleam  'mid  glowing  curls, 
•Or  on  baldrick  and  on  banner, 
In  the  old  heroic  manner, 

Broidered  all,  by  high-born  girls. 

JBut  the  divers  came  no  more 
From  that  dark  Confederate  sea, 

With  its  ceaseless  muffled  roar, 
And  its  billows  sweeping  free, 

*  Contributed  specially  to  the  "Southern  Amaranth." 


166  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH, 

And  the  pearls  were  never  gathered,. 
And  the  storms  were  never  weathered. 
Such  was  Destiny's  decree  ! — 

Quench  the  tear,  and  stay  the  sigh, 
Nothing  now  can  these  avail ; 

They  who  nobly  strive  and  die, 
Over  Fate  itself  prevail. 

Give  to  those,  who  on  the  shore 

"Wait  for  sires  who  come  no  more, 
Shelter  from  the  surf  and  gale. 

Spread  the  board  and  trim  the  hearth, 
For  the  orphans  of  our  race, 

Lift  from  weariness  and  dearth, 

Each  young  drooping  form  and  face,, 

Light  anew  the  olden  fires 

Won  from  high  heroic  sires, 

And  may  God  bestow  his  grace  I 

BEECHMOEE,  KENTUCKY,  June  15th,  1867. 


0  TRIPLE-BARRED  Banner  !  the  badge  of  the  Free> 
"What  coward  would  falter  in  duty  to  thee  ! 
On  Southerners,  onward,  till  glory  be  won, 
And  our  eagles  in  pride  greet  the  gleam  of  the  sun. 

*  This  song  was  composed  in  Louisville  prison.  It  appeared  im 
the  first  number  of  the  Camp  Chase  paper,  and  led  to  something  like 
a  warning  of  suppression,  from  one  of  the  prison  authorities. 


BITTER  ALOES.  167 

The  daughters  of  Southland  are  kneeling  in  prayer, 
That  thy  folds  may  e'er  triumph  in  battle's  fierce  glare  ; 
Then  a  welcome  to  sufferings,  to  prisons  and  scars, 
And  Freedom's  dear  smile  to  the  Stars  and  the  Bars. 

0  Triple-barred  banner  !  the  dread  of  the  Foe, 
When  thou  art  advancing  his  might  is  laid  low, 
ISTo  stripes  now  degrade  thee,  no  symbol  of  shame, 
All  pure  are  thy  lustres,  all  peerless  thy  fame. 
"We  weep  not  nor  faint  as  the  sad  hours  roll, 
They  may  shackle  the  body,  they  cannot  the  soul  ; 
Then  welcome  to  troubles  and  battles  and  scars, 
And  Freedom's  bright  crown  to  the  Stars  and  the  Bars. 

0,  Triple-barred  banner  !  our  joy  and  our  pride, 
Though  scorned  by  invaders,  by  tyrants  decried, 
Fling  forth  thy  proud  folds  to  the  shore  and  the  sea, 
For  the  heart  of  the  Southland  is  beating  for  thee  ; 
And  our  brothers  are  arming  with  nerve  and  with  will, 
To  strike  till  the  Northman  is  humbled  and  still ; 
Then  a  welcome  to  prisons  and  wounding  and  scars, 
And  Freedom's  sweet  smile  to  the  Stars  and  the  Bars. 


BY  A.    J.    BEQUIER,    MOBILE,    ALABAMA. 

As  a  lute  which  vibrates  to  its  keenest  of  chords 

In  tempestuous  throes  ; 
Or  the  fiery  springs  that  empurple  the  rings 

Of  the  dark  summer  rose, 


168          THE  SOUTHERN  AMA1UNTH. 

Is  the  spall  of  a  na:n3,  is  the  rush  of  a  flame, 

Swift  sudden  and  brief, 
"When  some  Ate  exhumes  all  the  showering  blooms 

Of  a  poisonous  grief. 

There  are  currents  that  flash  through  the  spirit  and 
crash 

Like  the  clouds  on  the  air, 

While  the  visor  is  closed  and  the  frame  looks  com 
posed 

As  an  infant  at  prayer  ; — 

Storms  that  came  from  a  stir  or  a  breath,  or  a  sigh, 

To  drag  out  the  Past, 
Shapes  of  passion  abjured,  and  of  outrage  endured 

Where  our  fortunes  are  cast : 

Blighted  hopes  budding  white,  in  dim  vales  of  de 
light, 

From  impossible  seeds, 
When  we  smote  every  clod  with  the  plow  of  a  god, 

But  to  gather  up  weeds ! 

Things  we  thought  we  had  learned  to  forgive   or 
forget, 

As  compassionate  men, 
Coming  back  with  the  tread  of  the  corsleted  dead 

To  confront  us  again. 

That  we  feel,  in  our  hearts,  as  vapidly  vain 

As  the  vacantest  laughter ; 
And  we  know  are  supremely  forbidden  to  be, 

Either  now  or  hereafter. 


SEMMES'S    SWORD.  169 

Yet  a  word,  yet  a  tint,  yet  the  subtle  perfume 

Of  some  exquisite  flower, 
Yet  a  strain  of  far  music,  or  a  touch  of  the  breeze 

Can  awaken  to  power ! 

Thus  assuring  us  still,  turn  wherever  we  will, 

The  inscrutable  Soul, 
Is  not  only  the  sovereign  whole  of  a  part 

But  a  part  of  a  Whole. 

METBOPOLTTAN  KECOKD. 


"Shame!"  cried  Amyas,  hurling  his  sword  into  the  sea.  "To 
lose  my  right— my  right,  when  it  was  in  my  very  grasp.  Unmerci 
ful  !"  AMYAS  LEIGH  BJNGSLET. 

INTO  the  sea  he  hurled  it, 

Into  the  weltering  sea, 
The  sword  that  had  led  so  often 

The  onset  to  the  free  ; 
And  like  a  meteor  cleaving 

Its  path  through  the  watery  way 
Went  down  the  gory  falchion, 

To  lie  in  the  depths  for  aye. 

"  Go  sword,  no  hand  of  foeman 
Shall  grasp  thy  peerless  blade  ; 

On  the  path  of  fire  I  follow 
With  a  spirit  undismayed ; 


170  THE   S3UrH33S  Atf  \IUNTH. 


Even  in  the  hour  of  anguish, 
With  my  gallant  ship  a  wreck, 

'Tis  comfort  that  no  captor 
Shall  ever  tread  her  deck. 

"  'Tis  comfort  that  in  freedom 

I  draw  my  latest  breath, 
And  that  with  you,  my  brethren 

I  drink  the  cup  of  death  ; 
We  have  roved  the  sea  together, 

We  have  proved  our  country's  might, 
And  we  leave  to  the  God  of  battles 

The  rescuing  of  the  right." 

The  noble  Alabama 

Was  sinking  as  he  stood, 
Her  cross  and  stars  still  flying,* 

Her  bulwark  stained  with  blood, 
Down,  with  her  band  of  martyrs, 

She  settled  to  her  doom  —  • 
While  the  coward  cannon  thundered,  f 

Above  her  living  doom 

But  as  a  desert  courser 

Bears  his  master  from  the  fray, 
So  the  billows  bore  their  hero 

On  their  foaming  crest  that  day. 
Forth  plunged  the  gallant  Deerhound, 

To  snatch  him  from  the  wave, 
For  the  hand  that  ruled  the  tempest, 

Was  stretched  above  the  brave. 
BEECHMOBE,  1866. 

*  It  was  acknowledged  that  she  sunk  without  striking  her  flag. 
f  The  Alabama  was  fired  on  while  sinking. 
NEW  YOBK  NEWS. 


THE   BROKEN  MUG.  171 


Ode  (so  called)  on  a  late  melancholy  accident  in  the  Shenandoah 
Valley  (so  called.) 

BY  JOHN  ESTEN   COOKE,    VIRGINIA. 

MY  mug  is  broken,  my  heart  is  sad ! 

"What  woes  can  fate  still  hold  in  store  ? 
The  friend  I  cherished  a  thousand  days 

Is  smashed  to  pieces  on  the  floor ! 
Is  shattered  and  to  limbo  gone, 

I'll  see  my  mug  no  more  ! 

Eelic  it  was  of  joyous  hours. 

Whose  golden  memories  still  allure — 

When  coffee  made  of  rye  we  drank, 
And  gray  was  all  the  dress  we  wore ! 

"When  we  were  paid  some  cents  a  month, 
But  never  asked  for  more  ! 

In  marches  long  by  day  and  night, 
In  raids,  hot  charges,  shocks  of  war, 

Strapped  on  the  saddle  at  my  back, 
This  faithful  comrade  still  I  bore — 

This  old  companion,  true  and  tried, 
I'll  never  carry  more  ! 

Bright  days !  when  young  in  heart  and  hope 
The  pulse  leaped  at  the  words,  "  LA  GLOIEE  I" 

When  the  gray  people  cried  "  hot  fight ! 
Why  we  have  one  to  four  !" 

When  but  to  see  the  foeman's  face 
Was  all  then  asked — no  more  1 


172  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

From  the  Eapidan  to  Gettysburg — 

"  Hard  bread  "  behind,  "sour-krout,"  before — 
This  friend  went  with  the  cavalry 

And  heard  the  jarring  cannon  roar 
In  front  of  Cemetery  Hill— 

Grood  heavens  !  how  they  did  roar  ! 

Then  back  again,  the  foe  behind, 

Back  to  the  "  Old  Virginia  shore," — 

Some  dead  and  wounded  left — some  holes 
In  flags  the  sullen  gray-backs  bore  ; 

This  mug  had  made  the  great  campaign, 
And  we'd  have  gone  once  more  ! 

Alas  !  we  never  went  again  ! 

The  red- cross  banner,  slow  but  sure, 
"  Fell  back  " — we  bade  to  sour-krout 

(Like  the  lover  of  Lenore) 
A  long,  sad,  lingering  farewell — 

To  test  its  joys  no  more. 

But  still  we  fought  and  ate  tl  hard  bread," 
Or  starved,  good  friends  our  woes  deplore  ! 

And  still  this  faithful  friend  remained 
Eiding  behind  me  as  before — 

The  friend  on  march  and  bivouac, 
When  others  were  no  more. 

How  oft  we  drove  the  horsemen  blue, 
In  summer  bright,  or  winter  frore ! 

How  oft  before  the  Southern  charge 

Through  field  and  woods  the  blue-birds  tore ! 

I'm  "harmonized,"  to-day,  but  think 
I'd  like  to  charge  once  more. 


THE   BROKEN   MUG.  173 

Oh,  yes  !  we're  all  fraternal  now, 

Purged  of  our  sins  we're  clean  and  pure, 

Congress  will  "  reconstruct "  us  soon — 
But  no  gray  people  on  the  floor ! 

I'm  harmonized,  u  so  called,"  but  long 
To  see  those  times  once  more  ! 

Gay  days !  the  sun  was  brighter  then, 
And  we  were  happy,  though  so  poor  I 

That  past  comes  back  as  I  behold 
My  shattered  friend  upon  the  floor, 

My  splintered,  useless,  ruined  mug. 
From  which  I'll  drink  no  more  ! 

How  many  lips  I'll  love  for  aye, 

While  heart  and  memory  endure, 
Have  touched  this  broken  cup,  and  laughed, 

How  they  did  laugh,  in  days  of  yore  1 
Those  days  we'd  call  "  a  beauteous  dream  " 

If  they  had  been  no  more  ! 

Dear  comrades,  dead  this  many  a  day ! 

I  saw  you  weltering  in  your  gore, 
After  those  days,  amid  the  pines 
.  On  the  Kappahannock  shore  ! 
When  the  joy  of  life  was  much  to  me, 

But  your  warm  hearts  were  more 

Yours  was  the  grand,  heroic  nerve 
That  laughs  amid  the  storms  of  war — 

Souls  that  "  love  much  "  your  native  land 
Who  fought  and  died  therefor  ! 

You  gave  your  youth,  your  brains,  your  arms, 
Your  blood — vou  had  no  more. 


174  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

You  lived  and  died  true  to  your  flag  ! 

And  now  your  wounds  are  healed — but  sore 
Are  many  hearts  that  think  of  you 

Where  you  have  "gone  before," 
Peace,  comrade  !     God  bound  up  those  forms 

They  are  "  whole  "  forevermore ! 

Those  lips  this  broken  vessel  touched, 
His,  too  ! — the  man's  we  all  adore — 

That  cavalier  of  cavaliers, 

Whose  voice  will  ring  no  more — 

Whose  plume  will  float  amid  the  storm 
Of  battle  nevermore  ! 

Not  on  this  idle  page  I  write 

That  name  of  names  shrined  in  the  core 
Of  every  heart ! — peace  !  foolish  pen, 

Hush  !  words  so  cold  and  poor  ! 
His  sword  is  rust ;  the  blue  eyes  dust, 

His  bugle  sounds  no  more. 

Yet  even  here  write  this  :  He  charged 

As  Rupert  in  the  years  before, 
And  when  his  stern,  hard  work  was  done 

His  griefs,  joys,  battles  o'er — 
His  mighty  spirit  rode  the  storm, 

And  led  his  men  once  more. 

He  lies  beneath  his  native  sod 
Where  violets  spring  or  frost  is  hoar, 

He  recks  not — charging  squadrons  watch 
His  raven  plume  no  more  ! 

That  smile  we'll  see,  that  voice  we'll  hear, 
That  hand  we'll  touch  no  more  ! 


\ 

OF  THE 


THE    BROKEN   MUG.    -  175 

My  foolish  mirth  is  quenched  in  tears ; 

Poor  fragments  strewed  upon  the  floor, 
You  are  a  type  of  nobler  things 

That  find  their  use  no  more — 
Things  glorious  once,  now  trodden  down, 

That  make  us  smile  no  more ! 

Of  courage,  pride,  high  hopes,  stout  hearts — 
Hard,  stubborn  nerve,  devotion  pure, 

Beating  his  wings  against  the  bars, 
The  prisoned  eagle  tried  to  soar  ! 

Outmatched  o'erwhelmed,  we  struggled  still, 
Bread  failed — we  fought  no  more  ! 

Lies  in  the  dust  the  shattered  staff 

That  bore  aloft  on  sea  and  shore 
That  blazing  flag,  amid  the  storm ! 

And  none  are  now  so  poor, 
So  poor  to  do  it  reverence, 

JSTow,  when  it  flames  no  more ! 

But  it  is  glorious  in  the  dust, 

Sacred  till  Time  shall  be  no  more : 
Spare  it,  fierce  editors,  your  scorn — 

The  dread  "  Kebellion's  "  o'er  ! 
Furl  the  great  flag,  hide  cross  and  star, 
Thrust  into  darkness  star  and  bar, 
But  look  !  across  the  ages  far 

It  flames  fore  verm  ore  1 

NEW  YORK  NEWS. 


176  THE   SOUTHEEN  AMARANTH. 


BY  MOLLIE  E.    MOOEE,    TEXAS. 
$ 

THERE  is  a  radiant  beauty  on  the  hills, 

The  year  before  us  walks  with  added  bloomr 

But  ah  !  'tis  but  the  hectic  flush  that  lights 
The  pale  consumptive  to  his  early  tomb  ; 

The  dying  glory  that  plays  around  the  day 

When  that  which  made  it  bright  hath  fled  away  I 

A  mistiness  breeds  in  the  air — the  swell 
Of  east  winds  slowly  weaving  autumn's  pall, 

"With  dirge-like  sadness  wanders  up  the  dell, 
And  red  leaves  from  the  maple  branches  fall 

"With  scarce  a  sound  !     'Tis   strange, 'mysterious  rest. 

Hath  nature  bound  the  Lotus  to  her  breast  ? 

But  hark  !  a  long  and  mellow  cadence  wakes 

The  echoes  from  their  rocks !  how  clear  and  high 

Among  the  rounded  hills  its  gladness  breaks, 
And  floats  like  incense  toward  the  vaulted  sky ! 

It  is  the  harvest  anthem !  a  triumph  tone, 

It  rises  like  the  swelling  notes  of  old, 
That  welcomed  Ceres  to  her  golden  throne, 
When  through  the  crowded  streets  the  chariots  rolled. 
It  is  the  laborer's  chorus,  for  the  reign 
Of  plenty  hath  begun — the  golden  grain  I 


MINDING   THE   GAP.  177 

How  cheeks  are  flushed  with  triumph,  as  the  fields 
Bow  to  our  feet  with  riches  !     How  the  eyes 

Grow  full  with  gladness  as  they  yield 
Their  ready  treasures  !     How  hearts  arise 

To  join  with  gladness  in  the  mellow  chime 

"  The  harvest  time — the  glorious  harvest  time  !" 

It  is  the  harvest,  and  the  gathered  corn 
Is  piled  in  yellow  heaps  about  the  field, 

And  homely  wagons  from  the  break  of  morn 
Until  the  sun  glows  like  a  crimson  shield 

In  the  far  West,  go  staggering  homeward  bound, 

And  with  the  dry  husks  strew  the  trampled  ground 

It  is  the  harvest,  and  an  hour  ago, 

I  sat  with  half-closed  eyes  beside  the  "  spring," 
And  listened  idly  to  its  dreamy  flow, 

And  heard  afar  the  gay  and  ceaseless  ring 
Of  song  and  labor  from  the  harvesters — 
Heard  faint  and  careless  as  a  sleeper  hears. 

My  little  brother  came  with  bounding  step, 
And  bent  him  low  beside  the  shaded  stream, 

And  from  the  fountain  drank  with  eager  lip — 
While  I,  half-rousing  from  my  dream, 

Asked  where  he'd  spent  this  'still  September  day, 

Chasing  the  wrens,  or  on  the  hill  at  play  ? 

Backward  he  tossed  his  golden  head,  and  threw 

A  glance  disdainful  on  my  idle  hands, 
And  with  a  proud  light  in  his  eye  of  blue, 

Answered,  as  deep  his  bare  feet  in  the  sands 
He  thrust,  and  waved  his  baby  hand  in  scorn, 
11  Ah,  no !  down  at  the  cornfield  since  the  morn 
I've  been  minding  the  gap  I" 


ITS  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

"  Minding  the  gap  !"     My  former  dream  was  gneo, 

Another  in  its  place  !     I  saw  a  scene 
As  fair  as  e'er  an  autumn  sun  shone  on — 

Down  by  a  meadow,  large,  and  smooth  and  green — 
Two  little  barefoot  boys,  sturdy  and  strong, 
And  fair,  here  in  the  sun  the  whole  day  long, 
Lay  on  the  curling  grass. 
Minding  the  gap  1* 

Minding  the  gap  !     And  years  swept  by, 

Like  moments,  I  beheld  those  boys  again — 
And  patriot  hearts  within  their  breasts  beat  high, 

And  on  their  breasts  was  set  the  seal  of  men, 
And  guns  were  on  their  shoulders,  and  they  trod 
Back  and  forth,  with  measured  step,  upon  tlip  sod 
Near  where  our  army  slept, 
Minding  the  gap ! 

Minding  the  gap  !     My  brothers,  will  you  guard 
The  open  places  where  a  foe  might  creep — 

A  mortal  foe — 0  !  mind  those  other  gaps — 
The  open  places  of  the  heart — my  brothers, 
Watch  over  them ! 

The  open  places  of  the  heart — the  gaps 

Made  by  the  ruthless  hand  of  Doubt  and  Care  I 

Could  we  but  keep,  like  holy  sentinels, 

Innocence  and  Faith  forever  guarding  there — 

Ah  !  how  much  of  woe  and  shame  would  flee, 

Affrighted  back  from  their  blest  purity  ! 

*  Our  town  readers  will  have  to  be  told,  that  at  harvest  time  in  the 
rural  districts,  a  length  or  two  of  i'ence  is  let  down  to  allow  the  wag 
ons  to  pass  to  and  fro.  To  keep  cattle  out,  the  children  are  set  to 
"Minding  the  Gap."  This  has  given  our  sweet  young  poetess  a 

text  for  one  of  her  finest  gems. 

EDITOR  HOUSTON  TELEGRAPH. 


FAREWELL   TO   GALYESTON.  179 

No  gloom  or  sadness  from  the  outer  world, 
With  feet  unholy  then  would  wander  in, 

To  grasp  the  golden  treasures  of  the  soul, 
And  bear  them  forth  to  sorrow  and  to  sin ! 

'The  heart's  proud  fields  !  its  harvests  full  and  fair, 

Innocence  and  love,  could  we  but  keep  them  there, 
Minding  the  gap  ! 


BY  COLONEL  A.  M.  HOBBY,  TEXAS. 

Inscribed  to  to  Miss  Sallie  B.  Br  annum. 

QUEEN  City  of  the  Gulf !  and  must  it  be 
That  I  shall  say  farewell  to  scenes  like  thine  ? 
More  lovely  still  they  seem,  as  all  I  see 
May  never  gladden  more  these  eyes  of  mine  I 
But  Memory  will  not  all  these  joys  resign, 
But  backward  turn  to  lighten  coming  care, 
Amid  thy  blooming  gardens  lovingly, 
Inhale  the  sweetness  of  the  evening  air, 
Mellowed  into  softness  by  day's  declining  glare. 

There  is  a  mildness  in  the  zephyr's  breath 
That  floats  voluptuously  soft  and  warm, 
That  speaks  not  to  the  flowers  of  chill  or  death ; 
Nor  brilliant  skies  like  thine  give  birth  to  storm. 
All  that  can  please  in  climate,  or  can  form 


180  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Our  happiness,  by  Nature's  generous  hand 
Bestowed,  is  native  here  the  Pilgrim  saith ; 
The  fever'd  cheek  by  cooling  breezes  fann'd, 
While   swiftly  purple    health  the    swelling  veins   ex 
pand. 

Here  Spring  through  blushing  skies  first  points  her 

flight, 

Veil'd  in  fleecy  clouds,  waved  on  by  golden  hours, 
Old  Winter  draws  apace  at  face  so  bright, 
And  vengeful  breathes  a  chill  along  the  flowers, 
Till  Earth  is  painted  bright,  as  'twere  the  showers 
Dropp'd  gaudy  bloom,  adorning  home  and  vale, 
While  pallid  buds  grow  crimson  in  the  light ; 
Spring  spreads  her  garments  over  hill  and  dale, 
And  leaves  her  fragrant  breath  upon  the  scented  gale. 

But  thou  art  changed,  bright  Ocean-girdled  Queen  ! 
And  sadly  changed,  since  first  I  trod  thy  walks. 
Where  wit  and  Wealth,  and  Beauty  once  were  seen 
Reigns  solitude,  or  soldier  idly  stalks 
And  of  thy  homeless  exiled  children  talks — • 
Who  fondly  thinking  of  thy  sun-lit  shore, 
In  joy  forget  that  rivers  roll  between, 
And  dream  that  thou  art  charming  as  of  yore — 
Ah!  when  will  Time  and  Peace  thy  faded  bloom  re 
store  ? 

Thy  homes  are  desolate,  and  silence  deep 
Broods  undisturbed  within  thy  splendid  halls, 
While  restless  bats  in  endless  circles  sweep, 
And  spiders  spread  their  nets  along  thy  walls ; 
The  winds — as  spirit  unto  spirit  calls 


FAREWELL  TO   GALVESTON.  181 

In  whispers  soft,  or  moan  ings  fiercely  loud — 
Through  vineless  lattice  midnight  revels  keep  ; 
Thy  spires  still  proudly  rise  amidst  the  cloud, 
Ch-and   symbols  of  thy  people's   strength   and   hopes 
unbow'd. 

Nor  tuneless  do  these  spires  cleave  the  air, 
But  iron  tongues  send  out  their  sacred  sound, 
Holy  and  pure,  inviting  all  to  prayer 
From  vast  encampments  silent  spread  around ; 
Man  feels  that  this  is  consecrated  ground, 
And  yields  obedience  to  his  Maker's  laws, 
Asks  in  the  blessing  of  His  love  some  share  ; 
Communing  thus,  deep  consolation  draws, 
.As  holy  men  invoke  God's  blessing  on  our  cause. 

And  shall  thy  sons  be  passed  unnoticed  here, 
Whose  deeds  of  valor  are  a  nation's  pride ; 
"Who  marched  to  meet  the  invading  foe,  ere 
Yet  the  first  shock  of  battle  came,  and  side 
By  side  with  Texas  brothers  fought  and  died  ? 
Brave  heroes  !  few,  alas  !  are  left  us  now ; 
But  for  the  dead  still  flows  the  incessant  tear !       • 
Queen  City !  o'er  their  honored  ashes  bow, 
For    they    with    glorious    deeds   have    wreathed  thy 
beauteous  brow. 

And  Fame  hath  sepulchred  thy  mighty  dead ! 
'They  sleep  the  long  sleep  that  knows  no  waking ; 
Wrapp'd  in  their  gory  shrouds  on  honor's  bed, 
'They  heed  not  distant  battle's  thunder  breaking, 
Nor  feel  the  shuddering  earth  its  answer  making ! 
"Their  bodies  only  sleep,  their  spirits  still 


182  THE   SOUTHERN  AMAEANTH, 

Kide  on  the  breeze,  where'er  our  armies  trea<?r 

Their  mystic  forms  our  souls  with  courage  fill,. 

And  add  new  strength  to  th'  unconquerable  will. 

Thy  glorious  name  is  proudly  linked  with  those 
Immortal  names  that  Time  can  never  blight, 
For  thou  wert  wrested  from  our  country's  foe  ; 
Thy  galling  chains  struck  off  by  valor's  might — 
A  sun  of  splendor  rose  upon  thy  night, 
And  with  its  rise  the  Tyrant's  minions  fell ! 
"  What  sound  is  that  disturbs  the  night  repose?'* 
The  sentry  said,  "  'Tis  but  the  Ocean's  swell, 
Hymning  to  dying  year  a  last  and  long  farewell.'" 

Beneath  grey-mantled  skies  the  storm  of  war 
Is  gath'ring  fast,  in  battle's  grand  array 
They  sternly  form  beneath  the  Morning  star, 
And  wait  those  coming  shadows  on  the  bay  ; 
The  white-lipp'd  foe  ask,  trembling,  "What  are  they  Iw 
•  Their  thunder  answers  and  their  lightning's  play 
Deals  death  ;  the  battle  rages  fierce  and  wild, 
Till  darkness  flies  before  the  Morning  car — 
As  Mother  o'er  her  lost  but  new  found  child — 
Along  the  blushing  East  the  New  Year  pleasing  smiled. 

Old  Ocean  lays  his  head  upon  thy  breast, 
His  throbbing  pulse  denotes  the  lover's  fears, 
His  jealous  arms  around  thee  fondly  pressed, 
And  on  thy  bosom  sheds  his  briny  tears, 
The  constant  lover  of  a  thousand  years ! 
Though  constant,  ever  changing  is  his  mood 
5  Tis  passion's  billowy  strife  and  wild  unrest ; 
And  thou  dost  smile  to  see  thyself  thus  wooed, 
To  feel  his  great  heart  throb,  then  sighing,  sink  subduecL 


ALL   QUIET  ALONG  THE  POTOMAC.  183 

But  now  farewell  to  Ocean  and  his  bride  ! 

Farewell,    bright     skies,    and   birds,    and     blooming 

bowers  ! 

We  feel,  whate'er  to-morrow  may  betide, 
Our  loves  are  thine,  the  memory  of  these  hours 
Are  linked  with  those  who  wreathed  with  smiles  and 

flowers 

"War's  iron  brow,  and  still  his  care  beguiles  ; 
Here  noble  woman  tends  at  suff  ring's  side, 
And  like  an  angel  o'er  the  sick  couch  smiles ; — 

Farewell !  farewell,  fairest  and  loveliest  of  all  Isles  1 


10-wigtt* 

BY    LAMAB    FONTAINE. 

Company  I.,  Second  Regiment  Virginia  Cavalry.    Written  while  on  Picket  on 
the  banks  of  the  Potomac,  1861 . 

"  ALL  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night," 

Except  here  and  there  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot  as  he  walks  on  his  beat  to  and  fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 

'Tis  nothing — a  private  or  two  now  and  then, 
Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle ; 

Not  an  officer  lost  I  only  one  of  the  men 
Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death-rattle. 

*  The  authorship  of  this  poem  is  also  claimed  by  a  lady  of  Brook 
lyn,  N.  Y. 


184  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

"  All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,  to-night," 
Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming ; 

And  their  tents  in  th.e  rajs  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 
And  the  light  of  their  camp-fires-are  gleaming. 

A  tremulous  sigh,  as  a  gentle  night-wind, 
Through  the  forest  leaves  slowly  is  creeping. 

While  the  stars  up  above  with  their  glittering  eyes, 
Keep  guard  o'er  the  army  while  sleeping. 

There's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread, 
As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 

And  thinks  of  the  two  on  the  low  trundle-bed, 
Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 

His  musket  falls  slack — his  face  dark  and  grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep, 

And  their  mother — "  May  Heaven  defend  her !  " 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  as  brightly  as  then — 
That  night,  when  the  love  yet  unspoken, 

Leaped  up  to  his  lips,  and  when  low  murmured  vows, 
Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 

Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling  ; 
And  gathers  his  gun  close  up  to  his  breast, 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart's  swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine  tree, 

And  his  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary  ; 
Yet  onward  he  goes  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Toward  the  shades  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 


MY   MARYLAND.  185 

Hark !  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the  leaves  ? 

Was  it  the  moonlight  so  wondrousl  j  flashing  ? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle  !     "  Ha  !  Mary,  good  by  !" 

And  his  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  splashing. 

"  All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,  to-night !" 

No  sound,  save  the  rush  of  the  river ; 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead, 

The  pickets  off  duty  forever  ! 


BY   JAMES   E.     KANDALL. 


THE  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland ! 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore, 
That  wept  o'er  gallant  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 

Maryland  !  My  Maryland ! 

Hark !  to  a  wandering  son's  appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My  Mother  State !  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland ! 

For  life  or  death,  for  woe  or  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 
Maryland  !  My  Maryland ! 


186  THE   SOUTHERN      AMAKAKTH. 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland  ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland ! 

Eemember  Carroll's  sacred  trust, 
Eemember  Howard's  warlike  thrust — 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 
Maryland  !  My  Maryland ! 

Come  !  'tis  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland ! 
Come  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland  ! 

With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe  and  dashing  May, 
Maryland  !  My  Maryland  ! 

Come !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come  !  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland ! 

Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng, 
That  stalks  like  Liberty  along, 
And  give  a  new  KEY  to  thy  song 

Maryland  !  My  Maryland ! 

Dear  mother  !  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland  ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland ! 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain — 
"  Sic  Semper  "  'tis  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  millions  back  amain, 

Maryland  !  My  Maryland  ! 


MY  MARYLAND.  187 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
But  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 

But  lo  !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek, 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek, 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland  !  My  Maryland  I 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Yandal  toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland  1 

Better  the  fire  around  thee  roll, 
Better  the  blade,  the  shot,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland!  My  Maryland! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland ! 
The  Old  Line's  bugle,  fife  and  drum, 

Maryland ! 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb, 
Huzza  !  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum, 
She  breathes,  she  burns,  she'll  come,  shell  come  I 
Maryland!  My  Maryland! 


188  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


ttt'0 


BY   CHAELES   DIMTTKY,    LOUISIANA. 

OUE  army  lav, 

At  break  of  day, 
A  full  league  from  the  foe  away. 

At  set  of  sun, 

The  battle  done, 
"We  cheered  our  triumph,  dearly  won. 

Not  strong  were  we, 

If  strength  there  be, 
In  numbers  only.     But  the  free 

Are  strong  to  do, 

"Whose  hearts  are  true, 
Though  many  strive  against  the  few. 

All  right  before, 

We  marked  the  roar 
Of  hostile  guns  that  on  us  bore  ; 

And  here  and  there, 

The  sudden  blare 
Of  fitful  bugles  smote  the  air. 

No  idle  word 

The  quiet  stirred 
Among  us  as  the  morning  neared ; 

And  brows  were  bent, 

As  silent  went 
Unto  its  post  each  regiment. 

'Written  specially  for  the  "  Southern  Amaranth.1 


THE  SERGEANT'S  STORY.  189 

Blank  broke  the  day, 

And  wan  and  grey 
The  drifting  clouds  went  on  their  way. 

So  sad  the  morn. 

Our  colors  torn, 
Upon  the  ramparts  drooped  forlorn  ! 

At  early  sun, 

The  vapors  dun 
Were  lifted  by  a  nearer  gun  ; 

At  stroke  of  nine, 

Auspicious  sign ! 
The  sun  shone  out  along  the  line. 

Then  loud  and  clear, 

From  cannoneer 
And  rifleman  arose  a  cheer  ; 

For  as  the  grey 

Mists  cleared  away, 
"We  saw  the  charging  foes  array. 

Dear  Lord  !  how  poured 

The  galling  horde, 
While  all  our  guns  responsive  roared  I 

In  that  wild  hell 

]STo  man  could  tell 
Who  lived  or  died,  or  stood  or  fell 

To  left  and  right, 

From  height  to  height, 
The  hungry  cannon  urged  the  fight, 

And  in  the  wrack, 

Of  battle's  track 
Sharp  cleft  the  rifles  ceaseless  crack. 


190  THE   SOUTHERN    AMARANTH. 

So  long  blood-dyed, 

Our  guns  we  plied  ! 
So  long  the  furious  foe  replied ! 

Till  breast  to  breast 

Their  lines  we  pressed, 
Beyond  the  red  hill's  foaming  crest 

Then  in  the  van, 

From  man  to  man, 
A  quickly  gathering  murmur  ran  ; 

From  rank  to  rank 

It  rose  and  sank, 
"  Hurrah,  boys !  Jackson's  on  their  flank  I" 

What  fate  befell,- 

Let  story  tell, 
When  Jackson  struck  with  shot  and  shelL 

But  well  we  knew 

What  work  to  do, 
When  all  our  charging  bugles  blew. 

Our  army  lay 

At  break  of  day 
A  full  league  from  the  foe  away. 

At  set  of  sun, 

The  battle  done, 
We  cheered  our  triumph,  dearly  won. 


WOVEN   FANCIES.  191 


BY    MES.     FANNY    DOWNING,     NOKTH    CABOLINA. 

I  SIT  before  my  loom,  to-day, 

And  with  untiring  fingers  ply 
The  busy  shuttle  to  and  fro, 

Till  lightning-like  it  seems  to  fly. 

And  as  it  speeds  from  side  to  side, 
My  fancies  follow  free  and  swift, 

Now,  touch  upon  the  shadowy  past — 
Now,  far  into  the  future  drift. 

I  see  life's  web  in  Fancy's  loom, 

And  watch  Time's  shuttle  through  it  move, 
As  in  its  warp  and  woof  he  weaves 

The  glittering  threads  of  human  love. 

Feeling  how  dark  my  lot  would  be, 
If  through  its  course  no  radiant  ray, 

Of  this  best  gift  from  God's  own  hand, 
His  last  and  brightest,  found  its  way. 

It  is  not  so  !     The  precious  boon, 
"With  power  like  that  of  Midas  old, 

Has  grasped  the  threads  with  glowing  touch, 
And  turned  the  fabric  all  to  gold ! 

My  heart  leaps  up  as  I  recount 

The  priceless  treasure  of  its  dower, 
And  sings  for  very  blessedness, 
.  Beneath  their  sweet,  entrancing  power ! 

*  Contributed  specially  for  the  "  Southern  Amaranth." 


192  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

The  summer  breeze  comes  rustling  in, 
And  fans  my  cheek  with  odors  bland ; 

Eare  roses  blush  on  every  spray, 
And  beauty  brightens  sky  and  land. 

I  feel  the  joy  and  own  the  spell, 
Yet  from  them  sadly  turn  away, 

And  see  these  beauties  all  o'ercast, 
Subdued  by  winter's  icy  sway  ; 

And  shining  on  a  bleak  hill -side, 
A  much-loved  figure  mutely  stands, 

His  manly  form  all  bowed  with  cold, 

His  musket  grasped  with  stiff'ning  hands. 

So  gladly  leaving  bird  and  flower, 
I  sit  and  weave  this  cloth  for  him, 

But  as  I  weave  the  tears  fall  fast, 

And  turn  the  grey  threads  darkly  dim. 

For  ah  !  my  coward  spirit  shrinks 
And  mocks  me  with  a  whisper  loud 

"  Weave  quickly,  quickly,  fingers  slight — 
Perchance  you  weave  your  lover's  shroud, 

"  Perchance  upon  this  very  spot, 

Some  ball,  from  foeman's  rifle  thrown, 

"Will  find  a  deeper  hold  than  you, 

Eight  in  the  heart  you  call  your  own  1" 
#  *  *  *  *  * 

A  queen  once  labored  at  the  loom — 

I  claim  a  no  less  royal  state ! 
Virginia's  daughters  all  are  queens, 

In  virtue  of  their  mother  great ! 


LINES   AROUND   PETEESBUEG.  193 

Such  gloomy  thoughts  I'll  trample  down, 
And  from  such  fancies  queen-like  rouse, 

To  think  of  that  sweet  time  when  Peace 
Shall  crown  with  laurels  all  the  brows 

Of  those,  who  at  their  country's  call, 
Left  home  and  all  that  makes  life  blest, 

And  with  sublime  unselfishness, 
Yielded  themselves  to  her  behest. 

It  may  be  then  in  some  grand  loom 

Of  sunny  France's  vine-clad  land, 
A  snowy  web  of  glossy  silk 

Shaped  for  a  bridal  robe  may  stand, 

While  Flemish  girls,  with  artist's  touch, 

A  veil-like  woven  frost-work  bind, 
And  orange-buds  of  Southern  birth 

Among  the  laurel  leaves  are  twined. 
1862. 


tfc* 


BY    SAMUEL    M.     DAVEES,    VIRGINIA. 

Die  Menschen  sind  nicht  bloss  Zusammen,  wenn  sie  beisammen 
sind  ;  auch  die  Entfernte,  der  Abgeschiedene  lebt  uns. — GOETHE. 
Such  a  sleep  they  sleep,  the  men  I  loved. — TENNYSON. 

0  SILENCE,  Silence  now  when  night  is  near, 

And  I  am  left  alone, 
Thou  art  so  strange,  so  sad,  reposing  here, 

And  all  so  changed  hath  grown, 


194  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

Where  once  was  all  exuberant  with  life. 
Through  day  and  night,  in  toil  or  deadly  strife. 
If  I  must  weep,  0  tell  me  is  there  not 

Some  plaintive  story  breathed  into  my  ear, 

By  spirit  whispers  from  thy  voiceless  sphere, 
Haunting  this  sacred  spot  ? 
Unto  my  soul  more  sweetly  eloquent 
Than  words  of  love  on  sculptured  monument, 
Outspeaks  yon  crumbling  parapet,  where  lies, 

The  broken  gun,  the  idly  rusting  ball — 
Mementoes  of  an  ill-starred  enterprise  ! 
Eude  altar  reared  for  costly  sacrifice ! 
Vast  work  of  hero-hands  left  to  thy  fall, 
Where  are  they  now — that  peerless  brotherhood, 
Who  marshalled  there, 
That  dreadful  year, 

In  pain  and  peril  still  undaunted  stood, 
When  death  rode  fiercest  on  the  battle-storm, 
And  earth  was  strewn  with  many  a  glorious  form  I 
And  where  are  they,  who,  when  the  strife  was  done, 
With  kindly  greeting  round  the  camp-fire  met ; 
And  made  an  hour  of  mirth  from  danger  won, 
Eepay  the  day's  stern  toil,  when  the  slow  sun  was  set  ? 
Where  are  they  ?     Let  the  nameless  graves  declare, 

In  strange,  unwonted  spots  now  frequent  seen. : 
Alas !  who  knows  how  much  lies  buried  there : 
What  worlds  of  love  and  all  that  might  have  been  ! 

The*  rest  are  scattered  now — I  know  not  where — 

And  life  to  each  a  new  employment  brings ; 
But  still  they  seem  to  gather  round  me  here, 

To  whom  those  places  were  familiar  things. 
Though  sundered  wide  by  mountain  and  by  stream, 
Once  brothers — still  a  brotherhood  they  seem ; 


LINES   AROUND   PETERSBURG.  195 

More  close  united,  since  a  common  woe, 

Hath  brought  to  common  hopes  their  overthrow. 

Brave  hearts  and  true,  in  toil  and  danger  tried, 

I  see  them  still,  as  in  those  glorious  years, 
When  strong  and  hopeful,  battling  side  by  side, 
All  crowned  their  deeds  with  praise,  and  some  with 

tears. 

'Tis  done  !  the  sword  is  sheathed,  the  banner  furled: 
ISTo  sound  where  late  the  crashing  missile  whirled — 
The  dead  alone  are  on  the  battle-plain — 
The  living,  turn  them  to  life's  cares  again. 

0  Silence,  blessed  dreams  upon  thee  wait ; 

Here  thought  and  feeling  ope  their  precious  store — 
And  memory,  gathering  from  the  spoils  of  Fate, 

Love's  scattered  treasures,  bring  them  back  once  more. 

So  let  me  often  dream, 

As  up  the  brightning  stream 

Of  olden  Time,  thought  leads  thee  gently  on, 

Seeking  those  better  days,  not  lost,  alas !  but  gone  ! 

PETEBSBUEG  DAILY  INDEX. 


196  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 


BY    JOHN    K.     THOMPSON,     KICHMOND,     VA. 

[The  poem  which  follows  was  written  just  after  the  Seven  Days  of 
battle  near  Richmond,  in  1862.  It  was  suggested  by  the  appearance 
of  a  rainbow,  the  evening  before  the  grand  trial  of  strength  between 
the  contending  armies.  The  rainbow  overspread  the  eastern  skyy 
and  exactly  denned  the  position  of  the  Confederate  army,  as  seen- 
from  the  Capitol  at  Eichmond.  ] 

THE  warm,  weary  day  was  departing — the  smile, 
Of  the  sunset  gave  token  the  tempest  had  ceased  ; 

And  the  lightning  yet  fitfully  gleamed  for  awhile 
On  the  cloud  that  sank  sullen  and  dark  in  the  east. 

There  our  army — awaiting  the  terrible  fight 

Of  the  morrow — lay  hopeful,  and  watching  and  still ; 

While  their  tents  all  the  region  had  sprinkled  with  white, 
From  river  to  river,  o'er  meadows  and  hill ; 

While  above  them  the  fierce  cannonade  of  the  sky, 
Blazed  and  burst  from  the  vapors  that  muffles  the  sun 

Their  "  counterfeit  clamors  "  gave  forth  no  reply  ; 
And  slept  till  the  battle,  the  charge  in  each  gun. 

When  lo  !  on  the  cloud,  a  miraculous  thing  1 

Broke  in  beauty — the  rainbow  our  host  to  enfold  t 

The  centre  o'erspread  by  its  arch,  and  each  wing 
Suffused  with  its  azure,  and  crimson,  and  gold. 

Blest  omen  of  victory,  symbol  divine 
Of  peace  after  tumult,  repose  after  pain  ; 

How  sweet  and  how  glowing  with  promise  the  sign. 
To  eyes  that  should  never  behold  it  again  1 


THE   BATTLE   EAINBOW.  197 

For  the  fierce  flame  of  war  on  tlie  morrow  flashed  out, 
And  its  thunder  peals  filled  all  the  tremulous  air  ; 

Over  slippery  intrenchment  and  reddened  redoubt, 
Rang  the  wild  cheer  of  triumph,  the  cry  of  despair. 

"When  a  long  week  of  glory  and  agony  came, 
Of  mute  supplication,  and  yearning,  and  dread  ; 

When  day  unto  day  gave  the  record  of  fame, 
And  night  unto  night  gave  the  list  of  the  dead. 

We  had  triumphed — the  foe  had  fled  back  to  his  ships — 
His  standard  in  rags,  and  his  legions  a  wreck — 

But  alas !  the  stark  faces  and  colorless  lips 

Of  our  loved  ones,  gave  Triumph's  rejoicing  a  check. 

"Not  yet,  oh  not  yet,  as  a  sign  of  release 

Had  the  Lord  set  in  mercy  his  bow  in  the  cloud  ; 

USTot  yet  had  the  Comforter  whispered  of  peace 

To  the  hearts  that  around  us  lay  bleeding  and  bowed. 

.But  the  promise  was  given — the  beautiful  arc, 

With  its  brilliant  profusion  of  colors,  that  spanned 

The  sky  on  that  exquisite  eve,  was  the  mark 
Of  the  Infinite  Love  overarching  the  land. 

And  that  love  shining  richly  and  full  as  the  day, 

Through  the  tear-drops  that  moisten  each  martyr's 
proud  pall, 

On  the  gloom  of  the  past  the  bright  bow  shall  display 
Of  Freedom,  Peace,  Victory,  bent  over  all. 


198  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

§H0&fte  titeg*  at 


BY 


DOWN  by  the  valley,  'mid  thunder  and  lightning; 
Down  by  the  valley,  'mid  jettings  of  light, 
Down  by  the  deep  crimsoned  valley  of  Bichmond 
The  twenty-five  hundred  moved  on  to  the  fight ; 
Onward,  still  onward,  to  the  portals  of  glory, 
To  the  sepulchred  chambers,  yet  never  dismayed  : 
Down  by  the  deep  crimsoned  valley  of  Kichmond, 
Marched  the  bold  warriors  of  Bodes1  brigade. 

See  ye  the  fires  and  flashings  still  leaping  ? 

Hear  ye  the  pelting  and  beating  of  storm  ? 

See  ye  the  banners  of  proud  Alabama 

In  front  of  her  columns  move  steadily  on  ? 

Hear  ye  the  music  that  gladdens  each  comrade. 

As  it  floats  through  the  air  amid  the  torrent  of  sounds  T 

Hear  ye  the  booming  adown  the  red  valley  ? 

Carter  unbuckles  his  swarthy  old  hounds. 

Twelfth  Mississippi !  I  saw  your  brave  columns, 
Bush  through  the  channel  of  living  and  dead  ; 
Twelfth  Alabama  !  why  weep  your  old  war-horse,* 
He  died  as  he  wished,  in  the  gear  at  your  head  ; 
Seven  Pines,  ye  will  tell  on  the  pages  of  glory, 
How  the  blood  of  the  South  ebbed  away  'neath  the 

shade : 

How  the  lads  of  Virginia  fought  in  the  red  valley, 
And  fell  in  the  columns  of  Bodes'  brigade. 

*  Col.  K.  T.  Jones. 


CARMEN   TRIUMPHALE.  199 

Fathers  and  mothers,  ye  weep  for  your  jewels, 
Sisters,  ye  weep  for  your  brothers  in  vain, 
Maidens  ye  weep  for  your  sunny-eyed  lovers, 
Weep,  for  they  never  will  come  back  again  I 
Weep  ye,  but  know  what  a  halo  of  glory 
Encircles  each  chamber  of  death  newly  made, 
And  know  ye,  that  victory,  the  shrine  of  the  mighty, 
Stands  forth  on  the  banners  of  Kodes'  brigade. 

Daughters  of  Southland,  come  bring  ye  bright  flowers, 
Weave  ye  a  chaplet  for  the  brow  of  the  brave, 
Bring  ye  some  emblem  of  Freedom  and  Yictory. 
Bring  ye  some  emblem  of  Death  and  the  Grave — 
Bring  ye  some  motto  befitting  a  hero, 
Bring  ye  exotics  that  never  will  fade, 
Come  to  the  deep  crimsoned  valley  of  Kichmond, 
And  crown  the  young  chieftain  who  led  his  brigade. 


BY  HENKY  TIMKOD. 


Go  forth  and  bid  the  land  rejoice, 

Yet  not  gladly,  oh  my  song  ! 

Breath  softly  ;  as  if  mirth  would  wrong 
The  solemn  rapture  of  thy  voice. 

Be  nothing  lightly  done  or  said 

This  happy  day !     Our  joy  shall  flow 
Accordant  with  the  lofty  woe 

That  wails  above  the  noble  dead. 


200  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Let  him  whose  breast  and  brow  were  calm 
While  yet  the  battle  lay  with  God, 
Look  down  upon  the  crimson  sod 

And  gravely  wear  his  mournful  palm  ; 

And  him  whose  heart,  still  weak  from  fear, 
Beats  all  too  gayly  for  the  time, 
Know,  that  intemperate  glee  is  crime 

"While  one  dead  hero  claims  a  tear. 

Yet  go  thou  forth,  my  song  !  and  thrill 
With  sober  joy  the  troubled  days  ; 
A  nation's  hymn  of  grateful  praise 

May  not  be  hushed  for  private  ill. 

Our  foes  are  fallen  !     Flash  ye  wires  ! 

The  mighty  tidings  far  and  nigh ! 

Ye  cities  !  write  them  on  the  sky 
In  purple  and  in  emerald  fires  ! 

They  came  with  many  a  haughty  boast ; 

Their  threats  were  heard  on  every  breeze  ; 

They  darkened  half  the  neighboring  seas, 
And  swooped  like  vultures  on  the  coast , 

False  recreants  in  all  knightly  strife, 
Their  way  was  wet  with  woman's  tears  ; 
Behind  them  flamed  the  toil  of  years, 

And  bloodshed  stained  the  sheaves  of  life. 

They  fought  as  tyrants  fight,  or  slaves  ; 

Grod  gave  the  dastards  to  our  hands ; 

Their  bones  are  bleaching  on  the  sands, 
Or  mouldering  slow  in  shallow  graves. 


FROM   THE   RAPIDAN.  201 

What  though  we  hear  about  our  path 

The  heavens  with  howls  of  vengeance  rent ; 
The  venom  of  their  hate  is  spent ; 

"We  need  not  heed  their  fangless  wrath. 

Meantime,  the  stream  they  strove  to  chain, 
Now  drinks  a  thousand  springs,  and  sweeps 
With  broadening  breast,  and  mightier  deeps, 

And  rushes  onward  to  the  main ; 

While  down  the  swelling  current  glides 
Our  ship  of  State  before  the  blast, 
With  streamers  poured  from  every  mast, 

Her  thunders  roaring  from  her  sides. 

Lord !  bid  the  frenzied  tempest  cease, 

Hang  out  thy  rainbow  on  the  sea  ! 

Laugh  round  her,  waves !  in  silver  glee 
And  speed  her  to  the  ports  of  peace ! 

SOUTHERN  ILLUSTRATED  NEWS. 


WRITTEN  AT  THE   TIME   OP   HOOKER  S   INVASION. 

BY   MRS.    C.    A.  WARFIELD. 

THEY  are  pouring  down  upon  you, 

Gallant  Lee, 
As  streams  from  mountain  sources 

Seek  the  sea. 

Tour  serried  lines  advancing 
With  swords  and  banners  glancing, 
With  horses  plumed  and  prancing, 

Fast  and  free. 


202  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

Bugles  blowing,  banners  flowing, 
For  a  nation's  overthrowing — 
'Tis  a  wonderful  outgoing 
Jubilee ! 

As  came  the  haughty  Persian, 

Press  they  on ! 
But  we  have  not  yet  forgotten 

Marathon  ! 

And  through  the  memory  passes, 
With  all  its  mighty  masses, 
The  battle  of  Manassas 

Lost  and  won  ! 

Bugles  blowing,  banners  flowing 
For  a  nation's  overthrowing — 
All  the  North  to  battle  going  ! 

Back  to  run ! 

Now,  God  in  Heaven  be  with  you, 

Noble  chief, 
For  the  time  of  your  probation 

Waxes  brief — 

Your  foemen  thrice  outnumber 
The  army  clad  in  umber, 
Whom  no  pomps  of  war  encumber, 

"  Light  and  lief—" 
Bugles  blowing,  banners  flowing, 
We  take  comfort  in  the  knowing, 
Sometimes,  after  great  cock-crowing, 

Come  to  grief ! 

May  you  turn  the  tide  of  battle, 

Dauntless  Lee  ! 
Hurling  back  the  wreck  of  armies 

Like  the  sea. 


LINES   TO   LEE.  203 

Your  force  is  scant  and  meager, 
Compared  to  the  beleaguer, 
But  every  heart  is  eager 

To  be  free  ! 

Bugles  blowing,  banners  flowing, 
Can  make  no  braver  showing 
Than  the  South  to  battle  going 

Under  thee ! 

Than  the  South  the  North  repelling, 
While  her  mighty  heart  is  swelling 
And  every  pulse  is  glowing 
With  the  fame  of  thy  bestowing, 

"Robert  Lee ! 


TO   GENERAL  N.    B.    FORREST.* 

BY  KOSAIjIE   MILLEK,    MONTGOMEEY,    ALA. 

BRAVE  Forrest,  like  a  storm-king  sweeps 

O'er  the  vile  invader's  path ; 
In  thunders  of  vengeance  that  echo  afar ; 
And  he  flashes  like  Freedom's  orient  star, 

Or  Heaven's  lightning  of  wrath  ! 

And  woe  to  the  foe, 

When  he  deals  the  blow, 
For  his  heart  is  nerved  anew, 

By  the  memory  of  those, 

Who  in  death  repose, 
The  faithful,  the  brave  and  the  true. 

*  Special    Contribution. 


204  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Brave  Forrest,  like  a  lion  springs 
On  the  prowling  vandal,  who  comes 

With  demon  hands  and  hearts  so  black, 

To  desolate,  pollute  and  sack 
Our  firesides  and  our  homes. 

With  vengeful  sting 

He's  on  the  wing, 
As  a  torrent  he  rushes  along  ; 

And  his  warriors  brave, 

Like  old  ocean's  wave, 
Surge  over  the  Hessian  throng ! 

Brave  Forrest,  like  an  eagle  swoops 

Down  on  the  frightened  prey ; 
With  glittering  sword  in  noon-day's  blaze, 
And  at  dewy  eve  'neath  the  moon-light  rays, 
Our  "  war-eagle  "  leads  the  way ! 

Oh,  twine  his  name 

With  the  laurel  of  fame, 
In  letters  unfading  and  bright ; 

Embellish  with  glory, 

Each  thread  of  the  story, 
That  it  glow  with  a  living  light  I 

Like  the  comet's  dash, 

Thro'  the  ages  'twill  flash 
Adown  the  dim  future  of  Time ; 

And  'mid  heroes  of  yore, 

On  Eternity's  shore, 
It  will  live  in  a  record  sublime ! 

MONTGOMERY,  ALABAMA,  July,  1861. 


THE   DEVIL'S   DELIGHT.  205 


BY   JOHN   K.    THOMPSON. 

To  breakfast  one  morning  the  Devil  came  down, 

By  demons  and  vassals  attended  ; 
A  headache  had  darkened  his  brow  with  a  frown, 
From  his  orgie  last  night,  or  the  weight  of  his  crown, 

But  his  presence  infernal  was  splendid. 

In  a  robe  of  red  flame  was  Diavolo  dressed, 

Without  smutch  of  a  cinder  to  soil  it ; 
Blue  blazes  enveloped  his  throat  and  his  chest, 
While  the  tail,  tied  with  ribbons  as  blue  as  the  vest, 
Completed  his  Majesty's  toilet. 

No  masquerade  devil  of  earth  could  begin, 

With  his  counterfeit  horns  and  his  mock  tail, 
To  look  like  this  model  Original  Sin, 
As  of  lava  and  lightning  and  bitters  and  gin, 
He  sat  and  compounded  a  cocktail. 

But  to  give,  in  all  conscience,  the  Devil  his  due, 

He  seemed  sorrowful  rather  than  irate  ; 
And  his  Majesty  moped  all  the  dejeuner  through, 
With  a  twitch,  now  and  then,  of  the  ribbons  of  blue, 
And  the  look  of  a  penitent  pirate  ; 

Then  a  smile,  such  as  follows  some  capital  joke 

Of  a  Dickens,  a  Hood,  or  a  Jerrold, 
Sweet,  playful,  and  tender,  all  suddenly  broke 
O'er  the  face  of  Sathanas,  as  turning  he  spoke, 
"  Go,  imp  !  bring  the  file  of  the  Herald  /" 


206  THE  'SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

The  paper  was  brought,  and  Old  Nick  ran  his  eye 

(In  default  of  debates  in  the  Senate) 
Over  crimes,  there  were  plenty,  of  terrible  dye, 
Over  letter  and  telegram,  slander  and  lie, 
And  the  blatherskite  leaders  of  Bennett. 

There  were  frauds  in  high  places,  official  deceit ; 

There  were  sins,  we'll  not  name  them,  of  ladies  ; 
There  were  Mexican  murders,  and  murders  in  Crete, 
By  the  thousand,  all  manner  of  villainies  sweet, 

To  the  Herald  *s  subscribers  in  Hades. 


But  the  numberless  horrors  of  every  degree 
Did  not  wrholly  dispel  his  dejection ; 

"  The  Herald's  a  bore,  I'm  aweary,"  says  he  ; 

Then  uprising,  he  added,  "What's  this?  'TENNESSEE!' 
By  jingo  !  here's  Brownlow's  election  ! 

"  Ho,  varlet !  fill  up  till  the  beaker  runs  o'er !" 

Cried  the  Deil,  growing  joyous  and  frisky  ; 
A  white-hot  ferruginous  goblet  he  bore, 
And  the  liquor  was  vitriol  '  straight,'  which  he  swore 
"Was  less  hurtful  than  tangle-foot  whisky. 

"  Fill  up  !  let  us  drink,"  said  the  Father  of  Lies, 

"  To  the  mortal  whose  claims  are  most  weighty !" 
And  a  light  diabolic  shone  out  of  his  eyes, 
That  made  the  thermometer  instantly  rise 
To  fully  five  thousand  and  eighty. 

"  I  have  knights  of  the  garter  and  knights  of  the  lance, 
Who  shall  surely  hereafter  for  sin  burn  ; 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


THE    DEVIL'S    DELIGHT.  207 

I  have  writers  of  history,  ethics,  romance, 
In  England,  America,  Germany,  France, 
And  a  gay  little  poet  in  Swinburne  : 

"  Reformers,  who  go  in  for  infinite  smash ; 

The  widows'  and  orphans'  oppressor ; 
D.D.'s  by  the  dozen,  whose  titles  are  trash, 
To  be  written  with  two  little  d's  and  a  dash ; 

And  many  a  Father  Confessor  : 

"  And  besides  all  the  hypocrites,"  chuckled  the  Deil, 
"  Who  serve  me  with  Ave  and  Credo, 

I  have  tyrants  that  murder,  commanders  that  steal, 

Dahomey,  Mouravieff,  Butler,  McNeil, 
Thad.  Stevens,  Joe  Holt,  Escobedo  : 

"  But  the  man  of  all  others  the  most  to  my  mind, 

The  dearest  terrestrial  creature, 
Is  the  blaspheming  priest  and  the  tyrant  combined, 
Who  mocks  at  his  Maker  and  curses  his  kind, 

In  the  garb  of  a  Methodist  preacher. 

"  And  so  long  as  of  Darkness  I'm  absolute  Prince, 

From  his  praise  there  shall  be  no  deduction, 
Whose  acts  a  most  exquisite  malice  evince, 
And  whose  government  furnishes  excellent  hints, 
Opportunely  for  HELL'S  EECONSTKUCTION." 

Then  the  Fiend,  with  a  laughter  no  language  may  tell, 

Drained  his  cup,  and  abasing  his  crown  low, 
Cried  "  Hip,  Hip,  Hurrah  !"  and  a  boisterous  yell 
Went  round  till  the  nethermost  confines  of  Hell 
Ke-echoed  "  Three  cheers  for  old  Brownlow !" 


208  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


Uto  Ifiw  ni 


THE  maid  who  binds  her  warrior's  sash, 

And'  smiling,  all  her  pain  dissembles — 
The  while,  beneath  her  drooping  lash, 

One  starry  tear-drop  hangs  and  trembles — 
Though  Heaven  alone  records  the  tear, 

And  Fame  shall  never  know  her  story, 
Her  heart  has  shed  a  drop  as  dear 

As  ever  dewed  the  field  of  glory ! 

The  wife  who  girds  her  husband's  sword, 

'  Mid  little  ones  who  weep  and  wonder ; 
And  bravely  speaks  the  cheering  word, 

What  though  her  heart  be  rent  asunder — 
Doomed  nightly  in  her  dreams  to  hear 

The  bolts  of  war  around  him  rattle, 
Has  shed  as  sacred  blood  as  e'er 

Was  poured  upon  the  field  of  battle  ! 


The  mother  who  conceals  her  grief, 

While  to  her  heart  her  son  she  presses, 
Then  breathes  a  few  brave  words  and  brief, 

Kissing  the  patriot-brow  she  blesses — 
With  no  one  but  her  secret  God 

To  know  the  pain  that  weighs  upon  her — 
Sheds  holy  blood,  as  e'er  the  sod 

Received  on  Freedom's  field  of  honor ! 


CLOUDS  IN  THE  WEST.  209 


itt  ife 


BY  A.    J.    KEQUEEE, 

HARK  I  on  the  wind  that  whistles  from  the  "West, 
A  manly  shout  for  instant  succor  comes, 

From  men  who  fight  outnumbered,  breast  to  breast, 
With  rage  indented  drums ! 

Who  dare  for  child,  wife,  country  stream  and  strand, 
Though  but  a  fraction  to  the  swaying  foe, 

There  at  the  flooded  gate- ways  of  the  land, 
To  stem  a  torrentrs  flow. 


To  arms !  brave  sons  of  each  embattled  State, 
Whose  queenly  standard  is  a  Southern  star ; 

Who  would  be  free  must  ride  the  lists  of  Fate, 
On  Freedom's  victor  car ! 


Forsake  the  field,  the  shop,  the  mart,  the  hum 
Of  craven  traffic  for  the  mustering  clan ; 

The  dead  themselves  are  pledged  that  you  should  come, 
And  prove  yourself — a  man. 

The  sacred  turf  where  first  a  thrilling  grief 
Was  felt,  which  taught  you  Heaven  alone  disposes — 

God  I  can  you  live  to  see  a  foreign  thiefj 
Contaminate  its  roses  ? 


210  THE    SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

Blow,  summoning  trumpets,  a  compulsive  stave, 
Through  all  the  bounds,  from  Beersheba  to  Dan ; 

Come  out !  come  out !  who  scorns  to  be  a  slave, 
Or  claims  to  be  a  man  ! 


Hark  on  the  breezes  whistling  from  the  West, 
A  manlj  shout  for  instant  succor  comes, 

From  men  who  fight,  outnumbered  breast  to  breast, 
With  rage  indented  drums ! 

Who  charge  and  cheer  amid  the  murderous  din, 
Where  still  your  battle-flags  unbended  wave, 

Dying  for  what  your  fathers  died  to  win, 
And  you  must  fight  to  save. 

Ho !  shrilly  fifes  that  stir  the  vales  from  sleep, 
Ho  !  brazen  thunders  from  the  mountain's  hoar ; 

The  very  waves  are  marshalling  on  the  deep, 
While  tempests 'tread  the  shore. 

Arise  and  swear  your  palm-engirdled  land, 
Shall  burial  only  yield  a  bandit  foe ; 

Then  spring  upon  the  caitiffs,  steel  in  hand, 
And  strike  the  fatal  blow. 


SONG   OF   THE   FIRST   VIRGINIA   CAVALKY.  211 


Vkt  Jitti  ilfsgiwm  €!araltt}< 


i 

MOUNT  !  mount !  and  away  1 

Stay  not  to  entwine 
Fresh  garlands  around 

Full  breakers  of  wine  ; 
Mount !  mount !  and  away  ! 

One  cup  we  will  drain 
To  hearts  that  are  true, 

Then  spur  to  the  plain. 

II. 

Bright  wreaths  may  be  won 
With  sabre  and  spear, 

Than  garlands  with  wine 
To  the  soldier  more  dear : 
And  wine  may  be  drained 

Of  a  far  deeper  red — 
'Tis  the  blood  of  the  foe 

By  the  sharp  sabre  shed. 

III. 

Ring  out  bugle  note, 

Ring  out  loud  and  clear, 
No  spirit  grows  cold, 

No  heart  thinks  of  fear. 
On !  steady,  forward 

With  thundering  tramp, 
Let  comrades  not  think 

We  loiter  in  the  camp. 


212  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH, 


IV. 

On,  on,  let  us  ride 

When  looms  the  dark  horde, 
And  fierce  be  the  charge 

With  pistol  and  sword ; 
Give  spurs  to  your  steeds, 

Give  nerve  to  each  blow, 
Front,  rear,  right  and  left, 

Where'er  stands  the  foe. 

v. 

Bj  homesteads  and  sires, 

By  graves  where  they  rest, — 
By  hopes  that  are  dear — 

By  lips  we  have  pressed, 
The  wrongs  we  have  borne 

In  vengeance  recall — 
Strike  !  strike !  let  us  swear — 

Strike !  strike !  for  them  all. 


VI 

Up  I  up  !  with  your  banner 

Fair  hands  wrought  each  fold — 
Sic  SEMPER,  the  legend, 

Proud,  honored  and  old. 
Up  !  up  !  with  your  banner  I 

That  foemen  may  see 
A  doom  comes  to  them, 

To  us,  Victory ! 

SOOTHEEN  ILLUSTRATED  NEWS. 


STUART.  213 


A     BALLAD. 

PLACE — A  Company  Guard  of  Stuart's  Cavalry.    TIME — NlgU,  etc. 


BY  PAUL  H.    HAYNE. 


A  CUP  of  your  potent  "  mountain  dew,7' 
By  the  camp-fire's  ruddy  light ! — • 

3Jet  us  drink  to  a  spirit  as  leal  and  true, 
As  ever  drew  blade  in  fight, 

And  dashed  on  the  tyrants'  lines  of  steel, 
For  God  and  a  Nation's  Eight. 

II. 

By  Heaven  !  it  seems  that  his  very  name 

Embodies  a  thought  of  fire  ! 
It  strikes  on  the  ear  with  a  sense  of  flame, 

While  the  life-blood  boundeth  higher, 
And  the  pulses  burn  and  the  brain  expands 

In  the  glow  of  a  wild  desire. 

III. 

.Hark !  in  the  day  dawn's  misty  grey, 

Our  bugles  are  ringing  loud, 
And  hot  for  the  bliss  of  the  coming  fray, 

On  the  war.-steeds  fierce  and  proud, 
We  list  for  the  word  that  shall  launch  us  forth, 

Like  bolts  from  the  mountain  cloud  ! 


214:  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

IY. 

"We  list  for  the  word  and  it  comes  at  length 

In  a  strain  so  mighty  and  clear, 
That  we  rise  to  the  sound  with  an  added  strength, 

And  our  souls  grow  glad  to  hear — 
And  a  stir  like  the  breath  of  the  brooding  storm.; 

Thrills  through  us  from  van  to  rear. 

Y. 

Then  with  the  roar  of  the  whirlwind  freed, 

"We  rush  by  a  secret  way, 
And  merry  on  sabre  and  hemlet  and  steed 

Do  the  autumn  sunbeams  play  ; 
And  the  Devil  must  sharpen  his  keenest  wits 

To  rescue  "  his  own  "  to  day ! 

YI 

Oh !  ye  who  dwell  in  the  fertile  vales, 

Of  the  pleasant  land  of  Penn — 
Who  feast  on  the  fat  of  her  fruitful  dales — 

How  little  ye  dream  or  ken, 
That  the  Southern  Murat  has  bared  his  brand,, 

The  Stuart  rides  again  ! 

YII 

Close  up !  close  up  1  we  have  travelled  long  I. 

But  a  jolly  night's  in  store — 
A  night  of  feasting  and  wit,  and  song 

In  yon  Yankee  town  before  ! 
Ho  !  Sergeant,  spur  to  the  front  in  haste, 

And  knock  at  the  Mayor's  door ! 

YIII. 

Behold !  he  comes  with  a  ghostlike  grace, 

And  his  knee-joints  out  of  tune, 
And  the  cold,  cold  sweat  rolls  down  his  face 


STUART.  215 

In  the  liglit  of  the  rising  moon  ; 
And  his  palsied  tongue,  like  an  ancient  crone's, 
But  mutters  a  hollow  croon  ! 

IX. 

He  could  not  speak !  but  his  buxom  dame, 

With  a  trembling  daughter  nigh, 
Shrieked  out,  "  Oh  !  honor  their  virgin  fame, — 

Pass  the  poor  maidens  by." 
"Whereon  with  a  grievous  heave  and  throb, 

She  paused  in  her  speech  to  cry ! 

x. 

Hise  up  !  we  leave  to  the  churlish  brood 

Our  vengeance  is  seeking  now. 
The  fame  which  springs  from  the  brutal  mood, 

That  crimsons  a  woman's  brow  ; 
For  sons  are  we  of  a  courtly  race, 

And  bound  by  a  knightly  vow  I 

XL 
Rise  up  1  we  war  with  the  strong  alone  1 

For  when  was  the  caitiff  found 
To  sport  with  an  outraged  woman's  moan, 

Where  Southern  trumpets  sound — 
Though  the  blood  of  the  martyred  fair  makes  red, 

The  wastes  of  the  Southern  ground : 

XII. 
***•»**** 

Enough  !  while  I  speak  of  the  past,  my  lad, 
There's  coming — (hush !  lean  thee  near !) 

There's  coming  a  raid  that  shall  drive  them  mad, 
And  cover  their  land  with  fear, — 

And  you  and  I,  by  the  blessing  of  God, 
Aye  !  you  and  I  shall  be  there ! 


216  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

XIIL 

One  cup — one  more  of  your  "mountain  dew," 
Though  the  camp-fire  pales  its  light — 

Let  us  drink  to  a  spirit  as  leal  and  true 

As  ever  drew  blade  in  fight, 

And  dashed  on  the  Tyrant's  ranks  of  steel, 
For  God  and  his  Peopled  Eight ! 
SOUTHEEN  ILLUSTRATED  NEWS. 


On  the  departure  of  General  Joseph  E.  Johnston  for  his  West 
ern  Command. 


BY  JOHN  K.    THOMPSON. 


ONCE  more  to  the  breach  for  the  Land  of  the  West ! 
And  a  leader  we  give  of  our  bravest  and  best, 

Of  his  State  and  his  army  the  pride  : 
Hope  shines  like  the  plume  of  Navarre  on  his  crest, 

And  gleams  in  the  glaive  at  his  side. 

For  his  courage  is  keen  and  his  honor  is  bright 
As  the  trusty  Toledo  he  wears  to  the  fight, 

Newly  wrought  in  the  forges  of  Spain, 
And  this  weapon  *  like  all  he  has  brandished  for  Right 

Will  never  be  dimmed  by  a  stain. 

He  leaves  the  loved  soil  of  Virginia  behind, 
Where  the  dust  of  his  fathers  is  fitly  enshrined, 

*  General  Johnston  carries  with  him  a  beautiful  sword  recently 
presented  to  him,  bearing  the  mark  of  the  Koyal  Manufactory  of  To 
ledo.  1862. 


A  WORD   WITH   THE   WEST.  217 

"Where  lie  the  fresh  fields  of  his  fame ; 
Where  the  murmurous  Pines  as  they  sway  in  the  wind 
Seem  ever  to  whisper  his  name. 

The  Johnstons  have  always  borne  wings  on  their  spurs, 
And  their  motto  a  noble  distinction  confers, 

"  Ever  Ready  "  for  friend  for  or  foe — 
"With  a  patriot's  fervor  the  sentiment  stirs 

The  large,  manly  heart,  of  our  JOE. 

"We  recall  that  a  former  bold  chief  of  the  clan 
Fell,  bravely  defending  the  West,  in  the  van, 

On  Shiloh's  illustrous  day  ; 
And  with  reason  we  reckon  our  Johnston  the  man 

The  dark  bloody  debt  to  repay. 

There  is  much  to  be  done ;  if  not  glory  to  seek, 
There's  a  j  ust  and  a  terrible  vengeance  to  wreak, 

For  crimes  of  a  terrible  dye, 
While  the  plaint  of  the  helpless,  the  wail  of  the  weak 

In  a  chorus,  rise  up  to  the  sky. 

For  the  wolf  of  the  North  we  once  drove  to  his  den, 
That  quailed  in  affright  'neath  the  stern  glance  of  men, 

With  his  pack  has  turned  to  the  spoil ; 
Then  come  from  the  hamlet,  the  mountain  and  glen, 

And  drive  him  again  from  the  soil. 

Brave-born  Tennesseans  so  loyal,  so  true. 

Who  have  hunted  the  beast  in  your  highlands,  of  you 

Our  leader  had  never  a  doubt ; 
You  will  troop  by  the  thousand  the  chase  to  renew 

The  day  that  his  bugles  ring  out. 


218  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

But  ye  "  Hunters  "  so  famed  "  of  Kentucky  "  of  yore, 
Where,  where  are  the  rifles  that  kept  from  your  door 

The  wolf  and  the  robber  as  well  ? 
Of  a  truth  you  have  never  been  laggard  before, 

To  deal  with  a  savage  so  fell. 

Has  the  love  you  once  bore  to   your   country  grown 

cold? 
Has  the  fire  on  the  altar  died  out  ?     Do  you  hold 

Your  lives  than  your  freedom  more  dear  ? 
Can  you  shamefully  barter  your  birthright  for  gold, 

Or  basely  take  counsel  of  fear  ? 

We  will  not  believe  it — Kentucky,  the  land 
Of  a  Clay  will  not  tamely  submit  to  the  brand 

That  disgraces  the  dastard,  the  slave  ; 
The  hour  of  redemption  draws  nigh — is  at-hand — 

Her  own  sons  her  own  honor  shall  save  ! 

Mighty  men  of  Missouri,  come  forth  to  the  call, 
With  the  rush  of  your  rivers  when  the  tempests  appal 

And  the  torrents  their  sources  unseal, 
And  this  be  the  watchword  of  one  and  of  all — • 

"  Kemember  the  butcher,  MCNEIL  !" 

Then  once  more  to  the  breach  for  the  Land  of  the 

West! 
Strike  home  for  your  hearths — for  the  lips  you  love 

best — • 

Follow  on  where  your  leader  you  see  ; 
One  flash  of  his  sword,  when  the  foe  is  hard  prest, 
And  the  Land  of  the  West  shall  be  Free  1 

Richmond,  December  1st,  1862. 
SOUTHERN  ILLUSTRATED  NEWS. 


THE   GOOD   OLD   CAUSE.  219 


BY  JOHN  D.    PHEIAN,    MONTGOMERY,    ALABAMA. 
I 

HUZZA  !  huzza  !  for  the  Good  Old  Cause, 

'Tis  a  stirring  sound  to  hear, 
For  it  tells  of  rights  and  liberties 

Our  fathers  bought  so  dear ; 
It  brings  up  the  Jersey  prison  ship, 

The  spot  where  Warren  fell, 
And  the  scaffold  which  echoes  the  dying  words, 

Of  murdered  Hayne's  farewell. 

II. 

The  Good  Old  Cause  !  it  is  still  the  same 

Though  age  upon  age  may  roll ; 
'Tis  the  cause  of  the  right  against  the  wrong, 

Burning  in  each  generous  soul ; 
'Tis  the  cause  of  all  who  claim  to  live 

As  freemen  on  Freedom's  sod  ; 
Of  the  widow,  who  wails  her  husband  and  sonsr 

By  Tyranny's  heel  down-trod. 

III. 
And  whoever  burns  with  a  holy  zeal, 

To  behold  his  country  free, 
And  would  sooner  see  her  baptized  in  blood 

Than  to  bend  the  suppliant  knee, 
Must  agree  to  follow  her  White-cross  flag, 

Where  the  storms  of  battle  roll, 
A  soldier — a  SOLDIER  !  with  arms  in  his  hands. 

And  the  love  of  the  South  in  his  soul ! 


220  THE   SOUTHEKN   AMARANTH. 

IY. 

Come  one,  come  all,  at  your  country's  call, 

Let  none  remain  behind, 
But  those  too  young  and  those  too  old, 

The  feeble,  the  halt,  the  blind ; 
Let  every  man,  whether  rich  or  poor, 

Who  can  carry  a  knapsack  or  gun, 
Repair  to  the  ranks  of  our  Southern  host, 

Till  the  cause  of  the  South  is  won. 

V. 

But  the  son  of  the  South,  if  such  there  be, 

Who  will  shrink  from  the  contest  now, 
From  a  love  of  ease,  or  the  lust  of  gain, 

Or  through  fear  of  the  Yankee  foe, 
May  his  neighbors  shrink  from  his  proffered  hand 

As  though  it  was  soiled  for  aye. 
And  may  every  woman  turn  her  cheek 

From  his  craven  lips  away ; 
May  his  country's  curse  be  on  his  head, 

And  may  no  man  ever  see 
A  gentle  bride  by  the  traitor's  side, 

Or  children  about  his  knee. 

YI. 

Huzza !  huzza !  for  the  Good  Old  Cause, 

'Tis  a  stirring  sound  to  hear ; 
For  it  tells  of  rights  and  liberties, 

Our  fathers  bought  so  dear ; 
It  summons  our  braves  from  their  bloody  graves, 

To  receive  our  fond  applause, 
And  bids  us  tread  in  the  steps  of  those 

Who  died  in  the  Good  Old  Cause. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  PRAYER.  221 


BY  MBS.    MARGARET  J.    PBESTON,    VIRGINIA. 

FATHER!  fold  thine  arms  of  pity, 
Bound  us  as  we  meekly  bow ; 

Never  have  we  kneeled  bsfore  Thee, 
"With  such  burdened  hearts  as  now  1 

Joy  has  been  our  constant  portion, 

And  if  ill  must  now  befall, 
With  a  filial  acquiescence, 

"We  would  thank  thee  for  it  all 

In  the  path  of  present  duty, 
With  thy  hand  to  lean  upon, 

Questioning  not  the  hidden  future, 
May  we  walk  serenely  on. 

For  this  holy,  happy  home-love, 
Purest  bliss  that  crowns  my  life, 

For  these  tender,  trusting  children, — 
For  this  fondest,  faithful  wife, — 

Here  I  pour  my  full  thanksgiving ; 

And,  when  heart  is  torn  from  heart, 
Be  our  sweetest  tryst- word  "  Mizpah" — 

Watch  betwixt  us  while  we  part  1 


222  'THE   SOUTHERN   AMAKANTH. 

And  if  never  round  this  altar, 
We  should  kneel  as  heretofore, — 

If  these  arms  in  benediction, 

Fold  mj  precious  ones  no  more, — 

Thou  who  in  her  direst  anguish, 

Sooth'dst  thy  mother's  lonely  lot, 
In  thy  still  unchanged  compassion, 
Son  of  man !  forsake  them  not ! 
FEOM  BEECHENBKOOK. 


BY  MES.    MABGAHET  J.    PRESTON,    YIEGINIA. 

THE  Chaplain  advances  with  reverend  face, 
Where  lies  a  felled  oak,  he  has  chosen  his  place  ; 
On  the  stump  of  an  ash-tree  the  Bible  he  lays, 
And  they  bow  on  the  grass  as  he  silently  prays. 

##-5f##### 

"  Underneath  thine  open  sky, 

Father,  as  we  bend  the  knee, 
May  we  feel  thy  presence  nigh, — 

Nothing  'twixt  our  souls  and  thee  I 

We  are  weary, — cares  and  woes 
Lay  their  weight  on  every  breast,* 

And  each  heart  before  thee  knows, 
That  it  sighs  for  inward  rest 


THE  CHAPLAIN'S  PRATER.  223 

Thou  canst  lift  this  weight  away, 

Thou  canst  bid  these  sigliings  cease  ; 

Thou  canst  walk  these  waves  and  saj 
To  their  restless  tossings — "  Peace  1" 

We  are  tempted : — snares  abound, 
Sin  its  treacherous  meshes  weaves ; 

And  temptations  strew  us  round, 
Thicker  than  the  Autumn  leaves. 

Midst  these  perils,  mark  our  path, 

Thou  who  art  the  life,  the  way  ; 
Eend  each  fatal  wile  that  hath 

Power  to  lead  our  souls  away. 

Prince  of  Peace  !  we  follow  Thee  I 

Plant  thy  banner  in  our  sight ; 
Let  thy  shadowy  legions  be 

Guards  around  our  tents  to-night" 
PEOM  BEECHENBKOOK. 


A  HYMN. 

Respectfully  Dedicated  to  Mrs.  Joshua  Peterkin,  of  Richmond. 

BY  S.  FRANCIS  CAMERON,  MARYLAND. 

OH,  let  the  cry  awaken, 

From  every  hero-band, 
And  still  the  prayer  re-echo, 

God  bless  the  Southern  land. 


224          THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

With  heart  and  voice  awaken, 

The  ministrel  strains  of  yore  ,* 
Till  Southern  name  and  glory 
Kesound  from  shore  to  shore. 

Then  let  the  cry  awaken 
From  every  hero-band, 
And  still  the  prayer  re-echo, 
God  bless  our  Southern  land. 

While  hostile  bands  and  danger 

JSTow  threaten  our  fair  land, 
May  God's  strong  arm  protect  us, 

And  his  most  mighty  hand. 
Above  the  Southern  banner, 

May  Fortune's  star  long  shine, 
And  round  our  sacred  ensign, 

The  olive  branches  twine. 

Then  let,  etc. 

God  save  the  hero  spirits 

That  battle  for  the  right : 
Clothe  them  with  heav'nly  armor — 

With  more  than  human  might. 
Give  .them  thy  Holy  Spirit, 

To  bear  our  cross  on  high, 
That  through  its  sacred  merit, 

May  win  the  victory. 

Then  let,  etc. 


THE   SNOW.  225 


BY  WALKF.B  MEKIWETHEB  BELL. 

THE  clouds  are  hanging  heavy  and  low, 

Heavy  and  cold  and  grey  ; 
And  softly,  softly  falls  the  snow 

Through  all  the  weary  day. 
My  soul  is  wrapped  in  misty  clouds, 

Heavy  and  cold  as  they  ; 
For  I  know  they  are  weaving  dreary  shrouds, 

For  the  soldiers  far  away. 

I  watch  through  tears  that  from  mine  eyes 

As  silent  and  softly  flow, 
As  the  light  flakes  falling  from  the  skies, 

And  drifting  as  they  go. 
I  think  how  white  in  my  Love's  dark  hair 

They  lie, — and  oh  !  how  chill 
On  the  heart  that  beats  for  me,  ah  !  where  ? 

And  oh  I  is  it  beating  still  ? 

I  will  not  bear  the  doubt,  the  dread, 

Cease,  cease  ye  cruel  clouds, 
To  hang  like  palls  above  my  head, 

Weaving  your  pallid  shrouds  ; 
Or,  if  beneath  their  folds  at  rest, 

My  only  love  must  lie  ; 
Heap  all  your  white  drifts  on  my  breast, 

And  chill  me  till  I  die  I 

*  Special  Contribution. 


226  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


»  tto     rnil  wtow  nw  wm 


"Much  Yet  Remains  Unsung." 

BY  DAN  B.    LUCAS,  YIEGINIA. 

FAIR  were  our  visions  !     Oh,  they  were  as  grand 

As  ever  floated  out  of  Faerie  land  ;  — 

Children  were  we  in  single  faith, 

But  God,  like  children,  whom  nor  death, 

Nor  threat,  nor  danger  drove  from  Honor's  path, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Proud  were  our  men  as  pride  of  birth  could  render, 
As  violets,  our  women  pure  and  tender  ; 

And  when  they  spoke  their  voice  did  thrill, 
Until  at  eve,  the  whip-poor-will, 
At  morn  the  mocking-bird  were  mute  and  still, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

And  we  had  graves  that  covered  more  of  glory, 
Than  ever  taxed  tradition's  ancient  story  ; 

And  in  our  dream  we  wove  the  thread 
Of  principles,  for  which  had  bled 
And  suffered  long,  our  own  immortal  dead, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Though  in  our  land  we  had  both  bond  and  free, 
Both  were  content  ;  and  so  God  let  them  be  ;  — 
'Till  envy  coveted  our  land, 
And  those  fair  fields  our  valor  won  : 
But  little  recked  we,  for  we  still  slept  on, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


IN   THE   LAND    WHERE   WE   WERE   DREAMING.         227 

Our  sleep  grew  troubled,  and  our  dream  grew  wild, 
Red  meteors  flashed  across  our  Heaven's  field ; 

Crimson  the  moon ;  between  the  Twins, 
Barbed  arrows  fly,  and  then  begins 
Such  strife  as  when  disorder's  Chaos  reigns, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Down  from  her  sun-lit  heights  smiled  Liberty, 

And  waved  her  cap  in  sign  of  Victoiy — 

The  world  approved,  and  everywhere, 
Except  where  growled  the  Russian  bear, 

The  good,  the  brave,  the  just  gave  us  their  prayer, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

We  fanced  that  a  Government  was  ours — 
"We  challenged  place  among  the  world's  great  powers ; 
We  talked  in  sleep  of  Rank,  Commission, 
Until  so  life-like  grew  our  vision, 
That  he  who  dared  to  doubt,  but  met  derision, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


We  looked  on  high  :  a  banner  there  was  seen, 
Whose  field  was  blanched  and  spotless  in  its  sheen — 
Chivalry's  cross  its  Union  bears, 
And  vet'rans  swearing  by  the  stars 
Yowed  they  would  bear  it  through  a  hundred  wars, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

A  hero  came  amongst  us  while  we  slept, 
At  first  he  lowly  knelt — then  rose  and  wept ; 
Then  gathering  up  a  thousand  spears, 
He  swept  across  the  field  of  Mars  ; 
Then  bowed  farewell,  and  walked  beyond  the  stars — 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


228  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

We  looked  again  ;  another  figure  still, 
Gave  hope,  and  nerved  each  individual  will — 
Full  of  grandeur,  clothed  with  power, 
Self-poised,  erect,  he  ruled  the  hour 
"With  stern,  majestic  sway,  of  strength,  a  tower, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming.. 

As,  while  great  Jove,  in  bronze,  a  warder  God, 
Gazed  eastward  from  the  Forum  where  he  stood, 
Eome  felt  herself  secure  and  free, 
So  "Kichmond's  safe,"  we  said,  while  we 
Beheld  a  bronzed  Hero — God-like  LEE, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

As  wakes  the  soldier  when  the  alarum  calls — 
As  wakes  the  mother  when  her  infant  falls — 
As  starts  the  traveller  when  around 
His  sleeping  couch  the  fire-bells  sound — 
So  woke  our  nation  with  a  single  bound, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

Woe  !  woe  is  me  !  the  startled  mother  cried — 
While  we  have  slept,  our  noble  sons  have  died, 
Woe  !  woe  is  me  !  how  strange  and  sad, 
That  all  our  glorious  vision's  fled, 
And  left  us  nothing  real  but  the  dead, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 

And  are  they  really  dead,  our  martyred  slain  ? 

No  !  dreamers  !  morn  shall  bid  them  rise  again, 
From  every  vale — from  every  height, 
On  which  they  seemed  to  die  for  right — 

Their  gallant  spirits  shall  renew  the  fight, 

In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming. 


O   TEMPORE,   O   MOKES.  229 

Wake  !  dreamers,  wake !  none  but  the  sleeping  fail ; 

Our  cause  being  just,  must  in  the  end  prevail ; 
Once,  this  Thyestean  banquet  o'er 
Frown  strong,  the  few  who  bide  the  hour, 

Shall  rise  and  hurl  the  drunken  guests  from  power, 
In  the  land  where  we  were  dreaming  ! 

NEW  YOBK  NEWS. 


BY   J.    DICKSON  BEUNS,    M.    D.,    SOUTH  CABOLINA. 

*f  GEEAT  PAN  is  dead  !';  so  cried  an  airy  tongue 
To  one,  who,  drifting  down  Calabria's  shore, 

Heard  the  last  knell  in  starry  midnight  rung, 
Of  the  old  Oracles,  dumb  forevermore. 

A  low  wail  ran  along  the  shuddering  deep, 
And  as,  far  off,  its  naming  accents  died, 

'The  awe-struck  sailors,  startled  from  their  sleep, 
Gazed,  called  aloud  ;  no  answering  voice  replied  ; 

Nor  ever  will  —  the  angry  Gods  have  fled, 

Closed  are  the  temples,  mute  are  all  the  shrines, 

'The  fires  are  quenched,  Dodona's  growth  is  dead, 
The  Sibyl's  leaves  are  scattered  to  the  winds. 

."No  mystic  sentence  will  they  bear  again, 

Which,  sagely  spelled,  might  ward  a  nation's  doom  ; 

But  we  have  left  us  still  some  god-like  men, 
And  some  great  voices  pleading  from  the  tomb. 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


230  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

If  we  would  heed  them,  they  might  save  us  yetr 
Call  up  some  gleams  of  manhood  in  our  breatsv 

Truth,  valor,  justice,  teach  us  to  forget, 
In  a  grand  cause  our  selfish  interests 

But  we  have  fallen  on  evil  times  indeed ; 

When  public  faith  is  but  the  common  shame, 
And  private  morals  held  an  idiot's  creed, 

And  old-world  honesty  an  empty  name. 

And  lust  and  greed  and  gain  are  all  our  arts ! 

The  simple  lessons  which  our  fathers  taught 
Are  scorned  and  jeered  at ;  in  our  sordid  marts, 

We  sell  the  faith  for  which  they  toiled  and  fought. 

Each  jostling  each  in  the  mad  strife  for  gold, 
The  weaker  trampled  by  the  unrecking  throng, 

Friends,  honor,  country  lost,  betrayed  or  sold, 
And  lying  blasphemies  on  every  tongue. 

Cant  for  religion,  sounding  words  for  truth, 
Fraud  leads  to  fortune,  gelt  for  guilt  atones, 

No  care  for  hoary  age  or  tender  youth, 

For  widows'  tears  or  helpless  orphans'  groans. 

The  people  rage  and  work  their  own  wild  will, 
They  stone  the  prophets,  drag  their  highest  down,, 

And  as  they  smite,  with  savage  folly  still 

Smile  at  their  work ;  those  dead  eyes  wear  no  frown. 

The  sage  of  "  Drainfield  "*  tills  a  barren  soil, 
And  reaps  no  harvest  where  he  sowed  the  seed, 

He  has  but  exile  for  long  years  of  toil ; 

Nor  voice  in  counsel,  though  his  children  bleed. 

*  The  country  seat  of  H.  Barnwell  Khett. 


DIXIE.  231 

And  never  more  shall  "  Kedcliff' s  "  *  oaks  rejoice, 
Now  bowed  with  grief  above  their  master's  bier ; 

Faction  and  party  stilled  that  mighty  voice, 

Which  yej;  could  teach  us  wisdom,  could  we  hear. 

And  "  "Woodland's  "f  harp  is  mute  :  the  gray  old  man 
Broods  by  his  lonely  hearth  and  weaves  no  song  ; 

Or,  if  he  feings,  the  note  is  sad  and  wan, 

Like  the  pale  face  of  one  who's  suffered  long. 

So  all  earth's  teachers  have  been  overborne, 

By  the  coarse  crowd,  and  fainting  droop  or  die ; 

They  bear  the  cross,  their  bleeding  brows  the  thorn, 
And  ever  hear  the  clamor — "  Crucify !" 

Oh  for  a  man  with  god-like  heart  and  brain ! 

A  god  in  stature,  with  a  god's  great  will, 
And  fitted  to  the  time,  that  not  in  vain, 

Be  all  the  blood  we've  spilt,  and  yet  must  spill. 

Oh,  brothers  !  friends  !  shake  off  the  Circean  spell ! 

Eouse  to  the  dangers  of  impending  fate  ! 
Grasp  your  keen  swords,  and  all  may  yet  be  well — 

More  gain,  more  pelf,  and  it  will  be — too  late  ! 
CHABLESTON  MEECUEY. 


*  The  homestead  of  W.  Gilmore  Simms,  destroyed  by  Sherman's 
Army, 
f  The  homestead  of  Jas.  H.  Hammond. 


232  THE  SOUTHERN  AMAEANTH. 


BY  GEN.  ALBEKT  PIKE,  AEKANSAS. 


SOUTHRONS,  hear  your  country  call  you  I 
Up  !  lest  worse  than  death  befall  you ! 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  to  arms !  in  Dixie ! 
Lo !  all  beacon  fires  are  lighted, 
Let  our  hearts  be  now  united  ! 

To  arms !  to  arms  !  to  arms  !  in  Dixie  I 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  ! 

Hurrah !     Hurrah ! 
For  Dixie's  land  we'll  take  our  stand, 

To  live  or  die  for  Dixie ! 
To  arms !     To  arms  ! 

And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie  I 
To  arms !     To  arms  ! 

And  conqueer  peace  for  Dixie  1 

IL 

Hear  the  Northern  thunders  mutter ! 
Northern  flags  in  South  wind  flutter ! 

To  arms  !  to  arms !  to  arms  !  in  Dixie  I 
Send  them  back  your  fierce  defiance  ! 
Stamp  upon  the  cursed  alliance ! 

To  arms !  to  arms  !  to  arms  !  in  Dixie ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  !  etc. 


DIXIE.  233 

III. 

Fear  no  danger !  shun  no  labor  ! 
Lift  up  rifle,  pike  and  sabre  ! . 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  to  arms  !  in  Dixie ! 
Shoulder  pressing  close  to  shoulder, 
Let  the  odds  make  each  heart  bolder  ! 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  to  arms  !  in  Dixie ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  !  etc. 

IY. 

How  the  South's  great  heart  rejoices, 
At  your  cannon's  ringing  voices  ; 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  to  arms  !  in  Dixie ! 
For  faith  betrayed  and  pledges  broken, 
Wrongs  inflicted,  insults  spoken  I 

To  arms !  to  arms  !  to  arms !  in  Dixie ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  !  etc. 

V. 

Strong  as  lions,  swift  as  eagles 

Back  to  their  kennels  hunt  these  beagles ! 

To  arms !  to  arms  !  to  arms !  in  Dixie ! 
Cut  the  unequal  bonds  asunder  ! 
Let  them  hence  each  other  plunder ! 

To  arms !  to  arms  !  to  arms !  in  Dixie  1 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie !  etc. 

YL 

Swear  upon  your  country's  altar, 
Never  to  give  up  or  falter ; 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  to  arms  !  in  Dixie ! 
Till  the  spoilers  are  defeated, 
Till  the  Lord's  work  is  completed. 

To  arms  !  to  arms !  to  arms  !  in  Dixie ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  !  etc. 


234  THE   SOUTHEBN  AMARANTH. 

VII. 

Halt  not  till  our  Federation, 

Secures  among -earth's  Powers  its  station  1 

To  arms !  to  arms  !  to  arms  I  in  Dixie  1 
Then  at  peace  and  crowned  with  glory, 
Hear  your  children  tell  the  story ! 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  to  arms  I  in  Dixie ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  !  etc. 

VIII. 

If  the  loved  ones  weep  in  sadness, 
Victory  soon  shall  bring  them  gladness. 

To  arms  !  to  arms !  to  arms !  in  Dixie  f 
Exultant  pride  soon  banish  sorrow ; 
Smiles  chase  tears  away  to-morrow, 

To  arms !  to  arms !  to  arms  !  in  Dixie  ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  I  etc. 


BY   MBS.     FANNY    DOWNING,     NOETH    CAROLINA. 

CREATED  by  a  nation's  glee, 
With  jest  and  song  and  revelry. 
We  sang  it  in  our  early  pride, 
Throughout  our  Southern  borders  wide, 
While  from  ten  thousand  throats  rang  out 
A  promise  in  one  glorious  shout, 

"  To  live  and  die  for  Dixie." 


DIXIE.  235 

How  well  that  promise  was  redeemed, 
Is  witnessed  by  each  field  where  gleamed 
Victorious — like  the  crest  of  Mars — 
The  banner  of  the  Stars  and  Bars  ! 
The  cannons  lay  our  warriors  low — 
We  fill  the  ranks  and  onward  go 

"  To  live  and  die  for  Dixie." 

To  die  for  Dixie  !— Oh,  how  blest, 
Are  those  who  early  went  to  rest, 
Nor  knew  the  future's  awful  store, 
But  deemed  the  cause  they  fought  for,  sure 
As  heaven  itself,  and  so  laid  down 
The  cross  of  earth  for  glory's  crown, 
And  nobly  died  for  Dixie. 

To  live  for  Dixie — harder  part — • 
To  stay  the  hand— to  still  the  heart — 
To  seal  the  lips — enshroud  the  past — 
To  have  no  future — all  o'ercast — 
To  knit  life's  broken  threads  again, 
And  keep  her  memory  pure  from  stain — 
This  is  to  live  for  Dixie. 

Beloved  Land !  beloved  Sono- 

O' 

Your  thrilling  power  shall  last  as  long — 
Enshrined  within  each  Southern  soul — 
As  Time's  eternal  ages  roll  ; 
Made  holier  by  the  test  of  years, 
Baptized  with  our  country's  tears — 

God  and  the  right  for  Dixie  I 
THE  LAND  WE  LOVE. 


236  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


toll  to 


WALKER   MEBIWETHEE   BELL. 


AKOUSE  thee,  Kentucky  !  the  graves  of  thy  sires 

Are  pressed  by  the  foot  of  the  foe. 
Has  terror,  or  avarice  smothered  the  fires 

That  were  wont  in  thy  bosom  to  glow  ? 

Arise  !  shall  the  voice  of  Virginia  in  vain 

Call  aloud  to  the  child  of  her  pride  ? 
Thou  shouldst  rush  like  a  storm  over  mountain  and 
plain, 

To  conquer  or  die  at  her  side ! 

Alas  !  shall  the  rifles  thy  forefathers  bore, 

Hang  rusted  and  cold  in  their  place  ? 
Has  the  spirit  that  kindled  their  bosoms  of  yore, 

Forever  deserted  their  race  ? 

Awake !  there  is  scorn  in  the  beautiful  eyes 
Of  thy  maidens,  and  mothers  and  wives, 

41  Have  we  given  " — they  ask,  with  indignant  surprise, 
"  To  cowards  our  love  and  our  lives?" 

Awake,  and  redeem  us !     Arise  in  your  might, 

Or  forfeit  to  manhood  the  claim  ! 
The  arm  that  refuses  to  strike  for  the  right, 

Let  it  wither  and  perish  in  shame. 


THE   OLD   RIFLEMAN.  237 

And  tie  who  would  hasten  to  cringe  and  to  crawl. 

'Neath  the  foot  of  the  ruthless  invader  ; 
A  spirit  so  base  it  were  flattering  to  call 

A  craven,  a  serf,  or  a  traitor ! 


BY  DK.  FRANK  O.  TICKNOB,  GEORGIA. 

Now  bring  me  out  my  buckskin  suit! 

My  pouch  and  powder  too  ! 
"We'll  see  if  seventy-six  can  shoot, 

As  sixteen  used  to  do. 

Old  Bess  !  we've  kept  our  barrels  bright, 

Our  trigger  quick  and  true  ! 
As  far,  if  net  as  fine  a  sight 

As  long  ago,  we  drew  ! 

And  pick  me  out  a  trusty  flint ! 

A  real  white  and  blue, 
Perhaps  'twill  win  the  other  tint 

Before  the  hunt  is  through ! 

Give  boys  your  brass  percussion  caps ! 

Old  "  shut-pan  "  suits  as  well ! 
There's  something  in  the  sparks,  perhaps 

There's  something  in  the  smell. 

We've  seen  the  red  coat  Briton  bleed ! 

The  red-skin  Indian  too  ! 
We've  never  thought  to  draw  a  bead 

On  Yankee-doodle  doo ! 


238  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

But  Bessie  !  bless  your  dear  old  heart  I 
Those  days  are  mostly  done  ; 

And  now  we  must  revive  the  art 
Of  shooting  on  the  run ! 


o 


If  Doodle  must  be  meddling,  why, 

There's  only  this  to  do — 
Select  the  black  spot  in  his  eye, 

And  let  the  daylight  through  ! 

And  if  he  doesn't  like  the  way 

That  Bess  presents  the  view, 
He'll  maybe  change  his  mind,  and  stay 

Where  the  good  Doodles  do ! 

Where  Lincoln  lives !     The  man  you  know 

Who  kissed  the  Testament ; 
To  keep  the  Constitution  ?     No ! 

To  keep  the  Government! 

We'll  hunt  for  Lincoln,  Bess  I  old  tool, 

And  take  him  half  and  half ; 
We'll  aim  to  hit  him,  if  a  fool, 

And  miss  him,  if  a  calf ! 

We'll  teach  these  shot-gun  boys  the  tracks 

By  which  a  war  is  won  ; 
Especially  how  Seventy-six 

Took  Tories  on  the  run. 


THE  RIFLEMAN'S  FANCY  SHOT.  239 


"  EIFFLEMAIST,  shoot  me  a  fancy  shot, 

Straight  at  the  heart  of  yon  prowling  vidette  ; 

.Elng  me  a  bell  on  the  glittering  spot, 

That  shines  on  his  breast  like  an  amulet." 

*l  Ah,  captain  !  here  goes  for  a  fine-drawn  bead  ; 

There's  music  around  when  my  barrel's  in  tune." 
Crack  !  went  the  rifle  ;  the  messenger  sped, 

And  dead  from  his  horse  fell  the  ringing  dragoon. 

"  Now,  rifleman,  steal  through  the  bushes,  and  snatch 
From  your  victim  some  trinket  to  handsel  first  blood  ; 

A  button,  a  loop,  or  that  luminous  patch 

That    leams  in  the  moon  like  a  diamond  stud." 


•"  Oh,  captain  !  I  staggered  and  sunk  in  my  track. 

When  I  gazed  on  the  face  of  yon  fallen  vidette  ; 
.For  he  looked  so  like  you,  as  he  lay  on  his  back, 

That  my  heart  rose  upon  me,  and  masters  me  yet 

"  But  I  snatched  off  the  trinket  —  this  locket  of  gold, 
An  inch  from  the  centre  my  lead  broke  its  way, 

Scarce  grazing  the  picture,  so  fair  to  behold, 
Of  a  beautiful  lady  in  bridal  array  !" 

"  Ha  !  rifleman  !  fling  me  the  locket  —  'tis  she  ! 

My  brother's  young  bride  ;  and  the  fallen  dragoon 
Was  her  husband.     Hush  soldier  !  —  'twas  heaven's  de 
cree, 

We  must  bury  him  there,  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 


240  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

"  But  hark !  the  far  bugles  their  warning  unite  ;• 
War  is  a  virtue,  and  weakness  a  sin  ; 

There's  lurking  and  lopping  around  us  to-night : 
Load  again,  rifleman,  keep  your  hand  in  1" 


BY  MKS.    CATHEBINE  A.    WABITELD,    KENTUCKY. 

YES,  we  have  failed !     That  iron  word 
Drove  never  home  its  bolt  of  fate 

More  ruthlessly,  than  when  it  barred 
All  egress  from  the  prison  gate, 
That  closed  upon  our  sad  estate, 
And  left  us  powerless  in  the  dark, 
A  world's  reproach — a  nation's  mark. 

Failed  ?     Aye  so  grievously  that  pain 
Is  put  aside  in  pure  amaze, 

As,  at  our  weary  length  of  chain, 
And  steel- girt  path  we  stand  agaze, 
With  dark  distrust  of  coming  days, 
And  marvel  if  we  be  the  same. 
Who  lit  the  Christian  world  to  flame. 

The  same  who  owned  this  lovely  land 
Now  lying  waste — a  tyrant's  spoil, 

And  saw  its  stately  dwellings  stand 
Mid  waving  fields  of  fertile  soil, 


OUK   FAILURE.  241 

Enriched  by  swarthy  sons  of  toil  I 
The  princes  of  a  proud  estate 
Now  stricken,  sterile,  desolate 

The  same  ?     Where  be  our  legions  now, 
Where  stand  our  homes  so  fair  and  proud  ? 

Where  rings  each  step — where  beams  each  brow, 
Of  those  we  loved,  our  martyred  crowd, 
To  home  and  country  nobly  vowed, 
Of  sons  and  brothers — where  the  hope 
That  wreathed  our  splendid  horoscope  ? 

And  where  the  banner  which  on  high 
We  flung  with  all  the  pride  of  race, 

An  emblem  from  our  Southern  sky, 

Snatched  from  its  Southern  dwelling  place ; 
Our  deeds  of  arms  to  gild  and  grace, 
The  flag  our  breezes  loved  to  toss, 
Our  ark  of  strength — the  Southern  Cross  ? 

All  buried  in  one  common  grave, 
Are  these,  the  glories  of  the  past, 

Let  the  swamp  cypress  o'er  it  wave, 

The  bittern  sail,  the  eagle  rave, 

The  simoom  sweep,  the  midnight  blast, 
Make  requiem  meet ;  the  die  is  cast, 
And  we  who  counted  ill  the  cost, 
Who  ventured  all,  have  staked  and  lost 

What  marvel,  then,  if  in  the  burst, 

Of  an  incredulous  despair, 
When  fate  has  seemed  to  do  its  worst, 


24:2  THE   SOUTHEBN   AMARANTH. 

And  all  prove  false  that  seemed  so  fair, 
Such  words  as  these  should  mock  the  air, 
And  that,  mistrusting  fate  and  fame, 
We  question,  "Are  we  still  the  same?" 

Oh,  morbid  doubt  1     Oh,  words  of  wind  I 
I  cast  ye  forth  as  little  worth. 

Forgive  them,  Omnipresent  mind ! 

Forgive  them,  brothers  bound  on  earth 
To  one  poor  heritage  of  death, 
And  hear  conviction's  voice  proclaim 
The  potent  truth,  "We  are  the  same." 

The  same  who  faced  the  Northern  hosts, 
With  dauntless  hearts  and  shining  spears ; 

The  same  who  laughed  to  scorn  their  boasts, 
And  prove  the  few  the  many's  peers, 
And  did  in  days  the  work  of  years ; 
O'erwhelmed — not  conquered — overrun, 
And  desolated,  and  undone. 

Yet  still  the  same,  the  very  same, 

Believe  it — tremble  and  believe — 
Oh,  tyrants  who  with  sword  and  flame, 
Advanced  to  slaughter  and  bereave ; 
Then  staid  to  torture  and  deceive  ; 
Are  we,  who,  with  a  faith  sublime, 
Endure  our  fate — abide  our  time, 
NEW  YOKE  NEWS. 


SONG   OF  THE   SOUTH.  243 

'0»g  01  ill  • 


SING  us  a  song  of  the  South  we  love  ! 

0  !  Minstrel  sing  us  a  song !  * 
Sad  as  that  of  a  mateless  dove, 

But  make  it  not,  Minstrel,  long ! 

On  his  viol  a  master's  *  mother  breathed 

The  latest  sigh  from  her  mouth, — 
Oh !  thus  on  thy  harp  in  cypress  wreathed, 

Catch  thou  from  the  breath  of  the  South ! 

But,  Minstrel,  if  thou  hast  ever  an  art, 

To  teach  men  to  forget, — 
Eeserve  that  strain  for  some  other  heart, 

For  the  South  would  remember  yet. 

But  touch  not  for  her  one  vaunting  chord, 
Her  sons  would  but  weep  at  thy  strain ; 

The  dream  of  her  pride  was  dispelled  by  the  sword, 
Her  laurels  encircle  the  slain ! 

The  citron  shall  bloom  in  the  orange  grove, 

And  the  muscadine  twine  as  of  y  ore, 
But  her  dear  darling  dead,  embalmed  in  her  love, 

Shall  return  for  their  fruit  never  more  ! 

Then  tuning  jthy  harp  o'er  the  fresh  turned  sod, 
'Neath  a  bough  where  the  rain-crow  sings, 

Oatch  the  breath  of  the  South,  like  the  spirit  of  God, 
Poured  over  thy  trembling  strings ! 
*  Paganini. 


244  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Minstrel. 

The  song  of  the  South,  with  her  free  flag  furled  * 

My  heart  grows  mute  at  the  prayer ! 
For  the  anthem  would  trouble  the  heart  of  the  world 

Like  the  song  of  a  fallen  star  ! 

And  they  should  remember  that  'twas  not  alone, 

'Gainst  the  odds  of  her  Northern  foe ; 
That  she  struck  when  the  star  of  her  victory  shone, 

Or  sank  in  her  hour  of  woe  ! 

But  the  Teuton  and  Celt,  from  the  Shannon  and  Khiner 
And  the  Northman  from  Ottowa's  banks, 

Came  to  barter  their  blood  at  Mammon's  red  shrine, 
And  filled  up  the  enemy's  ranks. 

Kildare  and  O'Neal,  these  SONS  would  ye  call, 

Who  for  gold  in  recreant  bands, 
The  chains  which  are  rusting  in  Erin's  soul 

Have  fettered  on  Southern  hands ! 

Let  the  victory  there,  to  the  North  remain, 

And  the  same  to  the  Foreign  Powers ; 
The  South  has  enough,  amid  all  her  pain — 

For  the  honor  and  glory  are  ours  ! 

So  I'll  hang  my  harp  o'er  the  fresh  turned  sod, 
On  a  bough  where  the  rain-crow  sings,    • 

Till  the  breath  of  the  South,  like  the  spirit  of  God, 
Pour  over  my  trembling  strings. 
THE  LAND  WE  LOVE. 


HANASSAS.  245 


BY  CATHERINE  M.    WAEFIELD. 

THEY  liave  met  at  last — as  storm  clouds 

Meet  in  heaven, 
And  the  Northmen  back  and  bleeding 

Have  been  driven : 
And  their  thunders  have  been  stilled, 
And  their  leaders  crushed  or  killed, 
And  their  ranks  with  terror  thrilled, 
Kent  and  riven ! 

Xike  the  leaves  of  Yallambrosa, 

They  are  lying ; 

In  the  moonlight,  in  the  midnight, 

Dead  and  dying : 

Like  those  leaves  before  the  gale, 

iSwept  their  legions  wild  and  pale  ; 

"While  the  host  that  made  them  quail 
Stood  defying. 

When — aloft  in  morning  sunlight, 

Flags  were  flaunted, 
And  "  swift  vengeance  on  the  rebel " 

Proudly  vaunted : 
Xiittle  did  they  think  that  night 
Should  close  upon  their  shameful  night, 
And  rebels,  victors  in  the  fight, 

Stand  undaunted 


246  THE  SOUTHEKN  AMARANTH. 

But  peace  to  those  who  perished 

In  our  passes  I 
Light  be  the  earth  above  them, 

Green  the  grasses  f 
Long  shall  Northmen  rue  the  day, 
When  they  met  our  stern  array, 
And  shrunk  from  battle's  wild  affray 
At  Manassas  1 


a 


BY  PAUL  H.    HAYNE. 


HERE,  lonely,  wounded  and  apart, 

From  out  my  casement's  glimmering  roundr, 
I  watch  the  wayward  bluebirds  dart 

Across  yon  flowery  ground ; 
How  sweet  the  prospect !  and  how  fair 
The  balmy  peace  of  earth  and  air. 

But,  lowering  over  fields  afar, 

A  red  cloud  breaks  with  sulphurous  breath^. 
And  well  I  know  what  gory  Star, 

Is  regnant  in  his  house  of  Death  ; 
Yet  faint  the  conflict's  gathering  roll, 
To  the  fierce  tempest  in  my  soul. 

I,  who  the  foremost  ranks  had  led, 

To  strike  for  cherished  home  and  land — 
Groan  idly  on  this  torturing  bed, 


SCENE  IN  A  COUNTRY  HOSPITAL.  247 

With  broken  frame  and  palsied  hand, 
So  nerveless,  'tis  a  task  to  scare, 

The  insects  fluttering  round  my  hair : — 

0,  God  I  for  one  brief  hour  again, 

Of  that  grim  joy  my  spirit  knew, 
When  tyrant  life  blood  poured  like  rain, 

And  sabres  flashed  and  trumpets  blew, — 
One  hour  to  smile,  or  smitten  die 
On  the  wild  breast  of  Victory  1 

It  may  not  be ! — my  pulses  beat 

Too  feebly — and  my  heart  is  chill, 
Death,  like  a  thief  with  stealthy  feet 

Draws  nigh  to  work  his  ruthless  will, 
Hope,  Honor,  Glory  pass  me  by — 
But  He  stands  near  with  mocking  eye ! 

Aye  !  smooth  the  couch  ! — pour  out  the  draught, 

That,  haply,  for  a  season's  space, 
Hath  power  to  charm  his  fatal  shaft, 

And  warn  the  death-damps  off  my  face, 
A  blest  reprieve  ! — a  wondrous  boon  1 
Thank  Heaven !  this — all — ends  with  me  soon. 

SOUTHERN  ILLUSTRATED  NEWS. 


248  THE   SOUTHEEN  AMARANTH. 


WEITTEN  IN  FORT  WARREN,    IN   1864. 

"  O  patria  amada  !  a  ti  suspira  y  llora, 
Esta  en  su  carcel  alma  peregrina 
Llevada  errando  de  uuo  en  otro  instante." 

I. 

I  AM  a  captive  on  a  hostile  shore, 

Caged  like  the  falcon  from  its  native  skies, 

And  doom'd  my  agonizing  grief  to  pour 
In  futile  lamentations,  tears,  and  sighs, 
And  feed  the  gaze  of  fools  whom  I  despise. 

Daily  they  taunt  my  heart  with  bitter  sneers — 
They  prate  of  Liberty — deeds  great  and  wise, 

And  fill  the  air  with  patriotic,  cheers, 

While  human  shackles  clank  around  their  listless  ears. 

IL 
Hark !  hear  ye  not,  'mid  those  triumphal  cries, 

The  clanking  of  the  freeman's  heavy  chains  ? 
His  smothered  curses  from  the  sore  heart  rise  ? 

The  loud  indignant  beating  of  his  veins, 

Stirred  by  the  lava-hell  that  in  him  reigns  ? 
Hearest  him  not  writhe  against  the  dark  decree 

lhat  gyves  the  soul — for  it  just  hate  maintains? 
The  impetuous  mshings  of  his  heart  when  he 
Watches  the  eagle  soar  into  the  heavens,  all  free  ? 

IIL 

My  soul  appall'd  shrinks  from  Hypocrisy, 
And  whatsoever  bears  deception's  name. 
Under  thy  banner — Heaven-born  Liberty 


THE  SOUTHERN  PATEIOT's  LAMENT.       249 

The  fiends  of  war  inflated  with  acclaim, 
Revel  in  crime,  and  virtue  put  to  shame — 
They  slaughter  babes  and  wives  without  a  cause, 

And  holding  up  their  reeking  blades  exclaim — 
*' A  victory!"     Demolish  homes,  rights,  laws, 
And  o'er  the  wreck  send  up  to  Heaven  their  proud 
hurrahs. 

IY. 

I  am  a  captive  while  my  country  bleeds : 
And  Retribution  loudly  cries  to  Heaven, 

And  for  the  presence  of  her  warriors  pleads, 
Till  from  her  far  the  ruthless  foe  is  driven — 
Oh  God !  oh  God !     Hast  Thou  my  country  given 

To  direful  fate  ?     Must  I  lie  coop'd  up  here, 
While  she  by  desecrating  hands  is  riven  ; 

The  sobs  of  Age,  and  Beauty's  shrieks  of  fear, 

Like  funeral  knells  afar  are  tolling  in  my  ear  ? 

Y. 

And  thou  ethereal  one !     My  spirit's  bride, 
My  starr  my  sun,  my  universe — the  beam 

That  lit  my  youthful  feet  'mid  ways  untried ; 
Within  me  woke  each  high  ambitious  scheme, 
And  here  dost  hover  o'er  me  in  my  dream, 

Pressing  thy  lips  to  mine  until  I  feel 

Our  quick  hearts  ebbing  into  one  soft  stream 

Of  holy  love — ah  !  who  will  guard  thy  weal, 

And  from  thy  breast  avert  the  dark  marauder's  steel 

YL 

Oh,  my  distracted  country  !  child  of  pain 

And  anarchy  I — thee  shall  I  see  no  more 
Till  thou  art  struggling  in  the  tyrant's  chain, 


250  THE   SOUTHERN  AMAKANTH. 

Oppressed  by  insult  and  by  sorrow  sore, 
And  steeping  in  thy  children's  sacred  gore ! 

Must  thy  bright  star  of  glory  set  for  aye  ? 
Must  thou  become  the  poet's  Mecca  ?     Lore 

For  antiquaries  ?     Temple  of  decay  ? 

Wilt  thou  survive  no  more,  my  country's  Natal  Day  ? 

YIL 

Spirit  of  Jackson,  Zollicoffer,  rise ! 

Let  not  the  foe  your  cherished  land  enslave ! 
Let  her  not  fall,  a  bloody  sacrifice  ! 

And  thou,  immortal  Polk !  who  from  the  grave 

Mayest  inspire  with  victory  the  brave — 
Heroes  who  fell  in  Shenandoah's  vale — 

And  ye  who  fought  by  Shiloh's  golden  wave, 
Who  from  Manassas  drove  the  spoiler  pale ; 
Hear,  in  the  spirit  land,  my  country's  doleful  wail  I 

OLD  GUAED. 


BY  HENKT  TIMBOD. 


Ho !  woodman  of  the  mountain  side  I 

Ho !  dwellers  in  the  vales ! 
Ho  !  ye,  that  by  the  chafing  tide, 

Have  roughened  in  the  gales ! 
Leave  barn  and  byre,  leave  kin  and  cot, 

Lay  by  the  bloodless  spade ; 
Let  desk,  and  case,  and  counter  rot, 

And  burn  your  books  of  trade  I 


A   CRY   TO   AEMS.  251 

The  despot  roves  your  fairest  lands, 

And  till  he  flies,  or  fears, 
Your  fields  must  grow  but  armed  bands  — 

Your  sheaves  be  sheaves  of  spears  I 
Give  up  to  mildew  and  to  rust 

The  useless  tools  of  gain  ; 
And  feed  your  country's  sacred  dust 

With  floods  of  crimson  rain  I 

Come  with  the  weapons  at  your  call  — 

With  musket,  pike  or  knife  ; 
He  wields  the  deadliest  blade  of  all, 

Who  lightest  holds  his  life. 
The  arm  that  drives  its  untaught  blows, 

With  all  a  patriot's  scorn, 
Might  brain  a  tyrant  with  a  rose, 

Or  stab  him  with  a  thorn, 

Does  any  falter  ?  let  him  turn 

To  some  brave  maiden's  eyes, 
And  catch  the  holy  fires  that  burn 

In  those  sublunar  skies. 
Oh  !  co  aid  you  like  your  women  feelr 

And  in  their  spirit  march, 
A  day  might  see  your  lines  of  steel 

Beneath  the  victor's  arch. 


What  hope,  0  God  !  would  not  grow 
When  thoughts  like  these  give  cheer  ? 

The  lily  calmly  braves  the  storm  — 
And  shall  the  palm-tree  fear? 

No  I  rather  let  its  branches  court 


252  THE  SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

The  rack  that  sweeps  the  plain ; 
And  from  the  lily's  regal  port, 
Learn  how  to  breast  the  strain. 

Ho !  woodsmen  of  the  mountain  side, 

Ho  !  dwellers  in  the  vales  ! 
Ho  !  ye  that  by  the  roaring  tide, 

Have  roughened  in  the  gales ! 
Come  !  flocking  gayly  to  the  fight, 

From  forest,  hill,  and  lake ! 
We  battle  for  our  country's  right, 

And  for  the  lily's  sake  ! 


met. 

VO  ^~~s 

BY  MOINA.    (REV.    ABEAM  J.    EYAN. ) 

FOKTH  from  its  scabbard,  pure  and  bright, 

Flashed  the  sword  of  Lee ! 
Far  in  the  front  of  the  deadly  fight, 
High  o'er  the  brave  in  the  cause  of  right, 
Its  stainless  sheen  like  a  beacon  light, 

Led  us  to  victory. 

Out  of  its  scabbard,  where  full  long 

It  slumbered  peacefully — 
Roused  from  its  rest  by  the  battle  song, 
Shielding  the  feeble,  smiting  the  strong, 
Guarding  the  right,  and  avenging  the  wrong, 

Gleamed  the  sword  of  Lee. 


THE   SWOKD   OF   ROBERT  LEE.  253 

Forth  from  its  scabbard,  high,  in  air, 

Beneath  Virginia's  sky — 
And  they  who  saw  it  gleaming  there, 
And  knew  who  bore  it,  knelt  to  swear 
That  where  that  sword  led,  they  would  dare 

To  follow  or  to  die. 

Out  of  its  scabbard !     Never  hand 

Waved  sword  from  stain  as  free, 
Nor  purer  sword  led  braver  band, 
Nor  braver  bled  for  a  brighter  land, 
Nor  brighter  land  had  a  cause  as  grand, 
Nor  cause,  a  chief  like  Lee  ! 

Forth  from  its  scabbard !  how  we  prayed 

That  sword  might  victor  be  ! 
And  when  our  triumph  was  delayed, 
And  many  a  heart  grew  sore  afraid, 
"We  still  hoped  on  while  gleamed  the  blade 
Of  noble  Kobert  Lee  I 

Forth  from  its  scabbard  !  all  in  vain ! 

Forth  flashed  the  sword  of  Lee  ! 
'Tis  shrouded  now  in  its  sheath  again, 
It  sleeps  the  sleep  of  our  noble  slain, 
Defeated,  yet  without  a  stain, 
Proudly  and  peacefully. 

BICHMOND  ENQUIRES. 


254:  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


ifwttk 


To  General  ana  Mrs.  B.  F.  Clieatliam,  given  at  their  Marriage  Banquet, 
March  Ut?i,  1866. 

BY  GEN.    S.    B.  BTJCKNER,  KENTUCKY. 

HERE'S  a  health  to  the  brave  and  the  fair, 

To  glory  and  bravery  combined, 
To  charms  so  attractive  and  rare, 

To  the  laurel  and  myrtle  entwined. 

Though  man  in  his  pride  may  proclaim, 

He  reigns  in  his  grandeur  alone, 
His  deeds  can  but  win  a  bright  name, 

For  woman  to  wear  as  her  own. 

Thus  the  name  oar  Hero  achieved, 
On  the  fields  of  his  glory  and  fame, 

Is  by  Beauty  from  Knighthood  received 
As  a  tribute  she  justly  may  claim. 

But  the  laurels  which  chivalry  won, 
Never  nourished  so  freshly  as  now, 

When  thus  wreathed  in  bright  garlands  upon 
Her  fair  and  majestic  young  brow. 

And  amid  the  green  laurel's  bright  hue, 

How  modest  the  violet  shows, 
While  her  virtues  his  pathway  will  strew, 

With  the  fragrance  and  bloom  of  the  rose. 


THE  WAR  CHRISTIAN'S  THANKSGIVING.          255 

Then  a  health  to  the  Fair  and  the  Brave ; — 
They  will  live  in  our  hearts  and  in  story, 

Adorning  the  name  which  he  gave, 
In  the  blending  of  Beauty  and  Glory. 


Respectfully  Dedicated  to  the-  War  Clergy  of  the  United  States,  Bishops,  Priests, 
and  Deacons. 

BY  S,   TEACKLE   WALLIS,  BALTTMOBE. 

"  Cursed  be  lie  that  doeth  the  work  of  the  Lord  negligently,  and 
cursed  be  he  that  keepeth  back  his  sword  from  blood." — JEB- 
EMTAH,  xiviii,  10. 

0  GOD  of  battles !  once  again, 

With  banner,  trump  and  drum, 
And  garments  in  Thy  wine-press  dyed, 

To  give  Thee  thanks,  we  come. 

No  goats  or  bullocks  garlanded, 

Unto  thine  altars  go — 
With  brother's  blood,  by  brothers  shed, 

Our  glad  libations  flow. 

From  pest-house  and  from  dungeon  foul, 
Where,  maimed  and  torn  they  die ; 

From  gory  trench  and  charnel-house, 
Where,  heap  on  heap  they  lie  ; 


256  'THE    SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

In  every  groan  that  yields  a  soul, 
Each  shriek  a  heart  that  rends — 

With  every  breath  of  tainted  air — 
Our  homage,  Lord,  ascends. 

We  thank  Thee  for  the  sabre's  gash, 

The  cannon's  havoc  wild, 
We  bless  Thee  for  the  widow's  tears, 

The  want  that  starves  her  child  ; 

We  give  Thee  praise  that  Thou  hast  lit 
The  torch  and  fanned  the  flame ; 

That  lust  and  rapine  hunt  their  prey, 
Kind  Father !  in  Thy  name : 

That,  for  the  songs  of  idle  joy, 

False  angels  sang  of  yore, 
Thou  sendest  War  on  Earth,  111  Will 

To  Men,  forevermore. 

We  know  that  wisdom,  truth,  and  right, 

To  us  and  ours  are  given — 
That  Thou  hast  clothed  us  with  Thy  wrath, 

To  do  the  work  of  Heaven. 

We  know  that  plains  and  cities  waste, 

Are  pleasant  in  Thine  eyes ; 
Thou  lov'st  a  hearthstone  desolate, 

Thou  lov'st  a  mourner's  cries. 

Let  not  our  weakness  fall  below 

The  measure  of  Thy  will, 
And  while  the  press  hath  wine  to  bleed, 

Oh !  tread  it  with  us  still. 


A  PRAYER   FOR   PEACE.  257 

Teach  us  to  hate — as  Jesus  taught 

Fond  fools  of  yore  to  love — • 
Grant  us  thy  vengeance  as  our  own, 

Thy  pity,  hide  above. 

Teach  us  to  turn  with  reeking  hands 

The  pages  of  Thy  word, 
And  hail  the  blessed  curses  there, 

On  them  that  sheathe  the  sword. 

"Where'er  we  tread  may  deserts  spring, 

Till  none  are  left  to  slay ; 
And  when  the  last  red  drop  is  shed, 

"We'll  kneel  again  and  pray  I 
FOKT  WAKBEN,  1863. 


BY   S.    TEACKLE  WALLIS. 


PEACE  !  Peace  !     God  of  our  fathers,  grant  us  Peace  ! 

Unto  our  cry  of  anguish  and  despair 

Give  ear  and  pity  1     From  the  lonely  homes 

Where  widowed  beggary  and  orphaned  woe 

Fill  their  poor  urns  with  tears  ;  from  trampled  plains, 

The  blood  of  them  who  should  have  garnered  it 

Calling  to  thee  ;  from  fields  of  carnage,  where 

The  foul-beaked  vultures,  sated,  flap  their  wings 

O'er  crowded  corpses,  that  but  yesterday 

Bore  hearts  of  brothers,  beating  high  with  love 


258  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

And  common  hopes  and  pride,  all  blasted  now ; — 

Father  of  mercies !  not  alone  from  these 

Our  prayers  and  wail  are  lifted.     Not  alone 

Upon  the  battle's  seared  and  desolate  track, 

Nor  with  the  sword  and  flame,  is  it,  O  God, 

That  thou  hast  smitten  us.     Around  our  hearths 

And  in  the  crowded  streets  and  busy  marts, 

Where  echo  whispers  not  the  far-off  strife 

That  slays  our  loved  ones  ;  in  the  solemn  halls 

Of  safe  and  quiet  counsel — nay,  beneath 

The  temple  roofs  that  we  have  reared  to  Thee, 

And  'mid  their  rising  incense — God  of  Peace ! 

The  curse  of  war  is  on  us.     Greed  and  hate 

Hungering  for  gold  and  blood :  ambition,  bred 

Of  passionate  vanity  and  sordid  lusts, 

Mad  with  the  base  desire  of  tyrannous  sway 

Over  men's  souls  and  thoughts,  have  set  their  price 

On  human  hecatombs,  and  sell  and  buy 

Their  sons  and  brothers  for  the  shameless.     Priests, 

With  white,  anointed,  supplicating  hands, 

From  Sabbath  unto  Sabbath  clasped  to  Thee, 

Burn,  in  their  tingling  pulses,  to  fling  down 

Thy  censers  and  Thy  cross,  to  clutch  the  throats 

Of  kinsmen,  by  whose  cradles  they  were  born, 

Or  grasp  the  hand  of  Herod,  and  go  forth 

Till  Kachel  hath  no  children  left  to  slay. 

The  very  name  of  Jesxis,  writ  upon 

Thy  shrines,  beneath  the  spotless,  outstretched  wings 

Of  Thine  Almighty  dove,  is  wrapt  and  hid 

With  bloody  battle-flags,  and  from  the  spires 

That  rise  above  them,  angry  banners  flout 

The  skies  to  which  they  point,  amid  the  clang 

Of  rolling  war-songs  tuned  to  mock  Thy  praise. 


A  PRAYER   FOR   PEACE.  259 

All  things  once  prized  and  honored  are  forgot ; 
The  freedom  that  we  worshipped  next  to  Thee ; 
'The  manhood  that  was  freedom's  spear  and  shield  ; 
The  proud,  true  heart ;  the  brave,  outspoken  word, 
"Which  might  be  stifled,  but  could  never  wear 
The  guise,  whate'er  the  profit,  of  a  lie  ; 
All  these  are  gone,  and  in  their  stead  have  come 
'The  vices  of  the  miser  and  the  slave — 
Scorning  no  shame  that  bringeth  gold  or  power, 
Knowing  no  love,  or  faith,  or  reverence, 
Or  sympathy,  or  tie,  or  aim,  or  hope, 
Save  as  begun  in  self,  and  ending  there. 
With  vipers  such  as  these,  oh  !  blessed  God  ! 
Scourge  us  no  longer  !     Send  us  down,  once  more, 
Some  shining  seraph  in  Thy  glory  glad, 
To  wake  the  midnight  of  our  sorrowing 
With  tidings  of  good  will  and  peace  to  men ; 
And  if  that  star,  that  through  the  darkness  led 
Earth's  wisdom  then,  guide  not  our  folly  now, 
Oh,  be  the  lightning  Thine  Evangelist, 
With  all  its  fiery,  forked  tongues,  to  speak 
The  unanswerable  message  of  Thy  will. 

Peace !  Peace !     God  of  our  fathers,  grant  us  Peace 
Peace  in  our  hearts  and  at  Thine  altars ;  Peace 
On  the  red  waters  and  their  blighted  shores ; 
Peace  for  the  'leaguered  cities,  and  the  hosts 
That  watch  and  bleed  around  them  and  within, 
Peace  for  the  homeless  and  the  fatherless  ; 
Peace  for  the  captive  on  his  weary  way, 
And  for  the  mad  crowds  who  jeer  his  helplessness  ; 
For  them  that  suffer,  them  that  do  the  wrong, 


260  THE   SOUTHERN   AMAKANTH. 

Sinning  and  sinned  against.     0  God !  for  all ; 
For  a  distracted,  torn,  and  bleeding  land — • 
Speed  the  glad  tidings  !     Give  us,  give  us  Peace  I 


AHA  !  a  song  for  the  trumpet's  tongue  I 

For  the  bugle  to  sing  before  us, 
When  our  gleaming  guns,  like  clarions 

Shall  thunder  in  battle  chorus ! 
Where  the  rifles  ring,  where  the  bullets  sing, 

Where  the  black  bombs  whistle  o'er  us, 
With  rolling  wheel  and  rattling  peal 
They'll  thunder  in  battle  chorus ! 

With  the  cannon's  flash,  and  the  cannon's  crash 

With  the  cannon's  roar  and  rattle, 
Let  Freedom's  sons  with  their  shouting  guns- 
Go  down  to  their  country's  battle. 

Their  brassy  throats  shall  learn  the  notes 

That  make  old  tyrants  quiver, 
Till  the  war  is  done,  or  each  TYKREL  gun, 

Grows  cold  with  our  hearts  forever ! 
Where  the  laurel  waves  o'er  our  brother's  graven 

Who  have  gone  to  their  rest  before  us, 
Here's  a  requiem  shall  sound  for  them 
And  thunder  in  battle  chorus ! 

With  the  cannon's  flash,  and  the  cannon's  crash 

With  the  cannon's  roar  and  rattle, 
Let  Freedom's  sons  with  their  shouting  guns. 
Go  down  to  their  country's  battle. 


MUSIC   IN   CAMP.  261 

By  the  light  that  lies  in  our  southern  skies ; 

By  the  spirits  that  watch  above  us ; 
JBy  the  gentle  hands  in  our  summer  lands, 

And  the  gentle  hearts  that  love  us  ! 
Our  fathers'  faith  let  us  keep  till  death — 
Their  fame  in  its  cloudless  splendor — 
As  men  who  stand  for  their  mother-land, 
And  die — but  never  surrender  ! 

With  the  cannon's  flash,  and  the  cannon's  crash, 

With  the  cannon's  roar  and  rattle, 
Let  Freedom's  sons,  with  their  shouting  guns, 
Go  down  to  their  country's  battle ! 


n 

BY  JOHN   K.    THOMPSON. 

Two  armies  covered  hill  and  plain, 
Where  Rappahannock's  waters 

Ban,  deeply  crimsoned  with  the  stain 
Of  battle's  recent  slaughters. 

The  summer  clouds  lay  pitched  like  tents 

In  meads  of  heavenly  azure  ; 
And  each  dread  gun  of  the  elements 

Slept  in  its  hid  embrasure. 

The  breeze  so  softly  blew  it  made 

No  forest  leaf  to  quiver, 
And  the  smoke  of  the  random  cannonade 

Rolled  slowly  from  the  river. 


262  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

And  now,  where  circling  lulls  looked  down, 
With  cannon  grimly  planted, 

O'er  listless  camp  and  silent  town 
The  golden  sunset  slanted. 

When  on  the  fervid  air  there  came 
A  strain — now  rich,  now  tender ; 

The  music  seemed  itself  aflame 
With  day's  departing  splendor. 

A  Federal  band,  which,  eve  and  morn,, 
Played  measures  brave  and  nimble, 

Had  just  struck  up,  with  flute  and  horn 
And  lively  clash  of  cymbal. 

Down  flocked  the  soldiers  to  the  banks, 
Till,  margined  by  its  pebbles, 

One  wooded  shore  was  blue  with  "  Yanks," 
And  one  was  gray  with  "  Kebels." 

Then  all  was  still,  and  then  the  band, 
With  movement  light  and  tricksy, 

Made  stream  and  forest,  hill  and  strand, 
Reverberate  with  "  Dixie." 

The  conscious  stream  with  burnished 
Went  proudly  o'er  its  pebbles, 

But  thrilled  throughout  its  deepest  flow 
With  yelling  of  the  Eebels. 

Again  a  pause,  and  then  again 
The  trumpets  pealed  sonorous, 

And  "  Yankee  Doodle"  was  the  strain. 
To  which  the  shore  gave  chorus. 


MUSIC  IN   CAMP.  263 

The  laughing  ripple  shoreward  flew, 

To  kiss  the  shining  pebbles ; 
Loud  shrieked  the  swarming  Boys  in  Blue 

Defiance  to  the  Kebels. 

And  yet  once  more  the  bugles  sang 

Above  the  stormy  riot ; 
No  shout  upon  the  evening  rang — 

There  reigned  a  holy  quiet. 

The  sad,  slow  stream,  its  noiseless  flood 
Poured  o'er  the  glistening  pebbles  ; 

All  silent  now  the  Yankees  stood, 
And  silent  stood  the  Rebels. 

No  unresponsive  soul  had  heard 
That  plaintive  note's  appealing, 

So  deeply  "  Home,  Sweet  Home"  had  stirred 
The  hidden  founts  of  feeling. 

Or  Blue  or  Gray,  the  soldier  sees, 

As  by  the  wand  of  fairy, 
The  cottage  'neath  the  live-oak  trees, 

The  cabin  by  the  prairie. 

Or  cold  or  warm,  his  native  skies 
Bend  in  their  beauty  o'er  him  ; 
.  Seen  through  the  tear-mist  in  his  eyes, 
His  loved  ones  stand  before  him. 

As  fades  the  iris  after  rain 

In  April's  tearful  weather, 
The  vision  vanished,  as  the  strain 

And  daylight  died  together. 


264  THE    SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

But  memory,  waked  by  music's  art, 
Expressed  in  simplest  numbers, 

Subdued  the  sternest  Yankee's  heart, 
Made  light  the  Kebel's  slumbers. 

And  fair  the  form  of  music  shines, 
That  bright,  celestial  creature, 

Who  still,  'mid  war's  embattled  lines, 
Gave  this  one  touch  of  Nature. 


BY  MOINA.  (FATHER  BTAN.  ) 

OLD  trees,  old  trees,  in  your  nry  stic  gloom 

There  is  many  a  warrior  laid, 
There  is  many  a  lonely  and  nameless  tomb 

Sheltered  beneath  your  shade. 

Old  trees,  old  trees,  without  pomp  or  prayer, 
"We  buried  the  brave  and  the  true  ; 

We  fired  a  volley  and  left  them  there 
In  peace,  old  trees,  with  you. 

Old  trees,  old  trees,  keep  watch  and  ward, 

Over  each  grass-grown  bed, 
'Tis  a  glory,  old  trees,  to  shrine  and  guard 

The  dust  of  the  sunny  land's  dead. 

Old  trees,  old  trees,  wail  a  requiem  hymn 

On  the  slumberers  at  your  feet, 
Let  the  dirge  sound  on  'mid  your  shadows  dim- 

Your  voices,  old  trees,  are  sweet. 


BEYOND    THE   POTOMAC.  265 


Old  trees,  old  trees,  we  sliall  pass  away 
Like  the  leaves  ye  yearly  shed  ; 

But  you  like  sentinels  still  must  stay, 
Oh,  trees !  to  watch  our  dead. 


BY  PAUL  H.    HAYNE. 


THEY  slept  on  the  field  which  their  valor  had  won ! 
But  arose  with  the  first  early  blush  of  the  sun, 
For  they  knew  that  a  great  deed  remained  to  be  done, 
When  they  passed  o'er  the  Kiver : 

They  arose  with  the  sun,  and  caught  life  from  his  light — 
Those  giants  of  courage,  those  Anaks  in  fight — 
And  they  laughed  out  aloud  in  the  joy  of  their  might, 
Marching  swift  for  the  Kiver. 

On  !  on  !  like  the  rushing  of  storms  through  the  hills — 
On  1  on !  with  a  tramp  that  is  firm  as  their  wills — 
And  the  one  heart   of  thousands  grows  buoyant,  and 
thrills, 

At  the  thought  of  the  Kiver ! 

Oh !  the  sheen  of  their  swords  !  the  fierce  gleam  of  their 

eyes! 

It  seemed  as  on  earth  a  new  sunlight  would  rise, 
And  king-like,  flash  up  to  the  sun  in  the  skies, 
O'er  their  path  to  the  Kiver. 


266  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

But  their  banners,  shot-scarred,  and  all  darkened  with 

gore, 

On  a  strong  wind  of  morning  streamed  wildly  before, 
Like  wings  of  Death  angels  swept  fast  to  the  shore, 
The  green  shore  of  the  Eiver. 

As   they  march,    from  the  hill-side,    the  hamlet,   the 

stream, 

Gaunt  throngs  whom  the  Foemen  had  manacled,  teem, 
Like  men  just  aroused  from  some  terrible  dream, 
To  pass  over  the  Eiver. 

They  behold  the  broad   Banners,  blood-darkened,  yet 

fair, 

And  a  moment  dissolves  the  last  spell  of  despair, 
While  a  peal  as  of  victory  swells  on  the  air, 
Rolling  out  to  the  River. 

And  that  cry,  with  a  thousand  strange  echoings  spread, 
Till  the  ashes  of  heroes  were  thrilled  in  their  bed, 
And  the  deep  voice  of  passion  surged  up  from  the  dead, 
Aye !  press  on  to  the  River  ! 

On !  on  !  like  the  rushing  of  storms  through  the  hillsr 
On !  on !  with  a  tramp  that  is  firm  as  their  wills  ; 
And  the  one  heart,  of  thousands  grows  buoyant,  and 
thrills, 

As  they  pause  by  the  River. 

Then  the  wan  face  of  Maryland,  haggard  and  worn, 
At  this  sight  lost  the  touch  of  its  aspect  forlorn, 
And  she  turned  on  the  Foemen  full  statured  in  scorn, 
Pointing  stern  to  the  River. 


PROMISE   OF   SPRING.  267 

And  Potomac  flowed  calmly,  scarce  heaving  her  breast, 
"With  her  low  lying  billows  all  bright  in  the  West, 
For  the  hand  of  the  Lord  lulled  the  waters  to  rest 
Of  the  fair  rolling  Eiver. 

Passed !  passed !  the  glad  thousands  march  safe  through 

the  tide. 

(Hark,  Despot !  and  hear  the  deep  knell  of  your  pride, 
Kinging  wierd-like  and  wild,  pealing  up  from  the  side 
Of  the  calm  flowing  Eiver !) 

'Neath  a  blow  swift  and  mighty  the  Tyrant  shall  fall, 
Vain !  vain  !  to  his  gods  swells  a  desolate  call, 
For  his  grave  has  been  hollowed,  and  woven  his  pall, 
Since  they  passed  o'er  the  Eiver  I 


'Wfflfe*   01 


THE  sun-beguiling  breeze 

From  the  soft  Cuban  seas, 

With  life-bestowing  kiss   wakes  the   pride  of  garden 
bowers, 

And  lo !  our  city  elms 

Have  plumed  with  buds  their  helms, 
And,  with  tiny  spears  salute  the  coming  on  of  flowers.. 

The  promise  of  the  Spring, 
Is  glancing  every  wing 

That  tells  its  flight  in  song  that  shall  long  survive  the 
flight, 


268  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

And  mocking  Winter's  glooms, 
Skies,  air  and  earth  grow  blooms, 

With  change  as  bless'd  as  ever  came  with  passage  of  a 
night ! 

Ah  !  could  our  hearts  but  share 

The  promise  rich  and  rare, 
That  welcomes  life  to  rapture  in  happy,  fond  caress ; 

That  makes  each  innocent  thing 

Put  on  its  bloom  and  wing, 

Singing  for  Spring  to  come  to  the  realm  she  still  would 
bless  I 

But,  alas  for  us,  no  more 

Shall  the  coming  hour  restore 
The  glory  sweet  and  wonted  of  the  seasons  to  our  souls, 

Even  as  the  Spring  appears, 

Her  smiling  makes  our  tears. 
While  with  each  bitter  memory  the  torrent  o'er  us  rolls. 

Even  as  our  zephyrs  sing 

That  they  bring  us  in  the  Spring, 
Even  as  our  bird  grows  musical  in  ecstasy  of  flight — 

We  see  the  serpent  crawl, 

With  his  slimy  coat  o'er  all, 
And  blended  with  the  song  is  the  hisssing  of  his  blight 

We  shudder  at  the  blooms 
Which  but  serve  to  cover  tombs — 
At  the  very  sweet  of  odors  which  blend  venom  with  the 

breath ; 

Sad  shapes  look  out  from  trees, 
And  in  sky  and  earth  and  breeze, 

We  behold  but  the   aspect  of  a   Horror  worse  than 
Death  1 

SOUTH  CAEOLTNTAN. 


THE   BAKEFOOTED   BOYS.  269 


BY  the  sword  of  St.  Michael, 

The  old  dragon  through ! 
By  David  his  sling, 

And  the  giant  he  slew  ! 
Let  us  write  us  a  rhyme, 

As  a  record  to  tell, 
How  the  South  on  a  time 

Stormed  the  ramparts  of  Hell, 

With  her  barefooted  boys ! 

Had  the  South  in  her  border 

A  hero  to  spare, 
Or  a  heart  at  her  altar, 

Lo  I  its  life-blood  was  there ! 
And  the  black  battle  grime 

Might  never  disguise 
The  smile  of  the  South, 

On  the  lips  and  the  eyes, 

Of  her  barefooted  boys  I 

There's  a  grandeur  in  fight, 

And  a  terror  the  while, 
But  none  like  the  light 

Of  that  terrible  smile — 
The  smile  of  the  South, 

When  the  storm  cloud  unrolls, 
The  lightning  that  loosens 

The  wrath  in  the  souls 

Of  her  barefooted  boys  I 


270 


THE    SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

It  withered  the  foe, 

Like  the  red  light  that  runs 
Through  the  dead  forest  leaves, 

And  he  fled  from  his  guns ! 
Grew  the  smile  to  a  laugh, 

Rose  the  laugh  to  a  yell, 
As  the  iron-clad  hoofs 

Clattered  back  into  hell, 
From  our  barefooted  boys  ! 


BY   MILLIE   MAYFIELD.    * 

WE  come  !  we  come,  for  Death  or  Life, 

For  the  Grave  or  Yictory  ! 
We  come  to  the  broad  Bed  Sea  of  strife, 

Where  the  black  flag  waveth  free ! 
We  come  as  Men,  to  do  or  die, 

ISTor  feel  that  the  lot  is  hard, 
When  our  Hero  calls — and  our  battle-cry 

Is  "  On,  to  Beauregard  !" 

Up,  craven,  up  !  'tis  no  time  for  ease, 
When  the  crimson  war-tide  rolls 

To  our  very  doors — up,  up,  for  these 
Are  times  to  try  men's  souls ! 

The  purple  gore  calls  from  the  sod 
Of  our  martyred  brothers'  graves, 


*  Dedicated  to  the  Crescent  Regiment  of  New  Orleans,  Col.  M.  J. 
Smith. 


WE    COME  !    WE    COME  !  271 

And  raise  a  red  right  hand  to  God 
To  guard  our  avenging  braves, 

And  unto  the  last  bright  drop  that  thrills 

The  depths  of  the  Southern  heart, 
We  must  battle  for  our  sunny  hills, 

For  the  freedom  of  our  Mart — 
For  all  that  Honor  claims,  or  Eight — 

For  Country,  Love,  and  Home  ! 
Shout  on  the  tramping  steeds  of  Might 

Our  cry — "  We  come  !  we  come  !" 

And  let  our  path  through  the  serried  ranks 

Be  the  fierce  tornado's  track, 
That  bursts  from  the  torrid's  fervid  banks 

And  scatters  destruction  black  ! 
For  the  hot  life  leaping  in  the  veins 

Of  our  young  Confederacy, 
Must  break  for  aye  the  galling  chains 

Of  dark-brow'd  Treachery. 

On  !  on  !  'tis  our  gallant  chieftain  calls, 

(He  must  not  call  in  vain,) 
For  aid  to  guard  his  homestead  walls — 

Our  Hero  of  the  Plain  ! 
We  come  !  we  come  to  do  or  die, 

Nor  feel  that  the  lot  is  hard  : — 
"  God  and  our  Eights  !"  be  our  battle-cry, 

And,  "  On,  to  Beauregard  1" 


272  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

" 

"f  will  §*jrajj." 

BY   WALKEB  MEBIWETHEB  BELL. 

IT  is  not  always  dark ! 
When  night's  black  shades  are  round  us  chill 

And  drear  ; 
High  up  in  heaven  the  sweet  voice  of  the  lark 

Sings,  dawn  is  near. 

When  clouds  are  grey  and  sad, 
The  rainbow  builds  its  bright  arch  suddenly, 
Making  the  heart  with  its  fair  promise  glad 

Of  joy  that  is  to  be. 

Oh,  beautiful  land  that  lies 
Prone  in  the  dust,  despairing,  fettered,  dumb, 
A  voice  from  out  the  future  prophecies 

Of  glory  yet  to  come. 

The  sleepless  eye  of  God  is  open  still ; 
His  voice  shall  one  day  say  to  thee  arise  ! 
Thy  noble  blood  poured  out  like  water,  will 

Be  no  vain  sacrifice. 

Look  up !  Thy  foot  shall  be 
Upon  the  prone  neck  of  thine  enemy  yet ; 
Those  eyes  now  dimmed  by  bitter  tears  shall  see 
His  star  of  glory  set. 

Those  captive  hands  shall  shake 
Their  shackles  off,  as  Sampson  did  of  old, 
From  his  strong  limbs  the  flaxen  fetters  break 

Wherewith  they  sought  to  hold 


BEAUREGARD  S   APPEAL.  273 

Be  not  afraid,  for  God 
Doth  still  remember  mercy  in  his  wrath ; 
Bow  now  thy  soul  in  patience  'neath  the  rod 

Upon  thy  shadowed  path. 

The  clouds  that  darkly  loom 
Shall  shine  a  pillared  splendor  in  thy  sight, 
To  light  thy  steps  to  victory,  and  consume 

The  oppressor  in  his  might 


BY  PAUL  H.    HATNE. 

YEA  !  since  the  need  is  bitter, 

Take  down  those  sacred  bells, 
"Whose  music  speaks  of  our  hallowed  joys, 

And  passionate  farewells ! 

But  ere  ye  fall  dismantled, 

Eing  out,  deep  bells  !  once  more  : 

And  pour  on  the  waves  of  the  passing  wind 
The  symphonies  of  yore. 

Let  the  latest  born  be  welcomed 

By  pealings  glad  and  long, 
Let  the  latest  dead  in  the  churchyard  bed 

Be  laid  with  solemn  song. 

And  the  bells  above  them  throbbing, 
Should  sound  in  mournful  tone, 

As  if  in  the  grief  for  a  human  death, 
They  prophesied  their  own. 


274  THE    SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

"Who  says  'tis  a  desecration 

To  strip  the  Temple  Towers, 
And  invest  the  metal  of  peaceful  notes 

With  death-compelling  powers  ? 

A  truce  to  cant  and  folly  ! 

With  Faith  itself  at  stake, 
Shall  we  heed  the  cry  of  the  shallow  fool, 

Or  pause  for  the  bigot's  sake  ? 

Then  crush  the  struggling  sorrow ! 

Feed  high  your  furnace  fires, 
That  shall  mould  into  deep-mouthed  guns  of  bronze, 

The  bells  from  a  hundred  spires. 

Methinks  no  common  vengeance — 

No  transient  war  eclipse — 
Will  follow  the  awful  thunder  burst 

From  their  "  adamantine  lips." 

A  cause  like  ours  is  holy, 

And  useth  holy  things ; 
And  over  the  storm  of  a  righteous  strife, 

May  shine  the  Angel's  wings. 

Where'er  our  duty  leads  us, 

The  Grace  of  God  is  there, 
And  the  lurid  shrine  of  War  may  hold 

The  Eucharist  of  prayer. 


MELT   THE   BELLS.  275 


BY  F.    G.    EOCKETT. 


MELT  the  bells,  melt  the  bells ! 
Still  the  tinkling  on  the  plain, 
And  transmute  the  evening  chimes, 
Into  war's  resounding  rhymes, 
That  the  invader  may  be  slain 
By  the  bells. 

Melt  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
That  for  years  have  called  to  prayer, 
And,  instead,  the  cannon's  roar, 
Shall  resound  the  valleys  o'er, 
That  the  foe  may  catch  despair 
From  the  bells. 

Melt  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
Though  it  cost  a  tear  to  part 
With  the  music  they  have  made, 
"Where  the  friends  we  love  are  laid, 
With  pale  cheek  and  silent  heart, 
'Neath  the  bells. 

Melt  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
Into  cannon  vast  and  grim, 
And  the  foe  shall  feel  the  ire, 
From  their  heaving  lungs  of  fire, 
And  we'll  put  our  trust  in  Him 
And  the  bells. 


276  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Melt  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
And  when  foes  no  more  attack 
And  the  lightning  cloud  of  war 
Shall  roll  thunderless  and  far, 
"We  will  melt  the  cannon  back 
Into  bells. 

Melt  the  bells,  melt  the  bells, 
And  they'll  peal  a  sweeter  chime, 
And  remind  of  ail  the  brave 
Who  have  sunk  to  glory's  grave, 
And  will  sleep  through  coming  time 
'Keath  the  bells. 


BY  JOHN  C.    MCLEMOKE,    SOUTH   CAROLINA.* 

FULL  many  a  year  in  the  village  church, 

Above  the  world  have  I  made  my  home ; 
And  happier  there  than  if  I  had  hung 
High  up  in  the  air  in  a  golden  dome ; 

For  I  have  tolled 

When  the  slow  hearse  rolled 
Its  burden  sad  to  my  door  ; 

And  echo  that  woke, 

With  the  solemn  stroke 
Was  a  sigh  from  the  heart  of  the  poor. 

I  know  the  great  bell  of  the  city  spire 
Is  a  far  prouder  one  than  such  as  I ; 

*  Mortally  wounded  at  the  battle  of  Seven  Pines. 


WHAT   THE   VILLAGE   BELL    SAID.  277 

And  its  deafening  stroke  compared  with  mine, 
Is  thunder  compared  with  a  sigh  ; 

But  the  shattering  note 

Of  his  brazen  throat, 
As  it  swells  on  the  Sabbath  air, 

Far  oftener  rings 

For  other  things 
Than  a  call  to  the  house  of  prayer. 

Brave  boy,  I  tolled  when  your  father  died, 
And  wept  while  my  tones  pealed  loud  ; 
And  more  gently  I  rung  when  the  lily-white  dame, 
Your  mother,  lay  in  her  shroud  ; 

And  I  sang  with  sweet  tone 
The  angels  might  own, 
When  your  sister  you  gave  to  your  friend, 
Oh !  I  rang  with  delight 
On  that  sweet  summer  night, 
When  they  vowed  they  would  love  to  the  end  I 

35ut  a  base  foe  comes  from  the  region  of  crime 

With  a  heart  all  hot  with  the  flames  of  hell ; 
And  the  tones  of  the  bell  you  have  loved  so  long 
No  more  on  the  air  shall  swell : 

For  the  people's  chief, 

With  his  proud  belief 
That  his  country's  cause  is  God's  own, 

Would  charge  the  song 

The  bells  have  rung 
To  the  thunder's  harsher  tone. 

Then  take  me  down  from  the  village  church, 
Where  in  peace  so  long  I  have  hung ; 


278  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

But  I  charge  you  by  all  the  loved  and 
^Remember  the  songs  I  have  sung. 

Eemember  the  mound 

Of  holy  ground, 
"WTiere  your  father  and  mother  lie  ; 

And  swear  by  the  love 

For  the  dead  above 
To  beat  your  foul  foe  or  die. 


Then  take  me  ;  but  when  (I  charge  you  this)- 

You  have  come  to  the  bloody  field, 

That  the  bell  of  God  to  a  cannon  grown, 

You  will  ne'er  to  the  foeman  yield. 

By  the  love  of  the  past,       "V 

Be  that  hour  your  last, 
When  the  foe  has  reached  this  trust  ; 

And  make  him  a  bed 

Of  patriot  dead, 
And  let  him  sleep  in  his  holy  dust 


BY  HENRY  TIMEOD,    SOUTH  CAROLINA. 

WHILE  I  recline 

At  ease  beneath 

This  immemorial  pine, 

Small  sphere ! — 

By  dusky  fingers  brought  this  morning  here,, 

And  shown  with  boastful  smiles — 


THE   COTTON   BOLL.  279 

I  turn  thy  cloven  sheath, 

Through  which  the  soft  white  fibres  peer, 

That  with  their  gossamer  bands, 

Unite,  like  love,  the  sea-divided  lands, 

And  slowly,  thread  by  thread, 

Draw  forth  the  folded  strands, 

Than  which  the  trembling  line, 

By  whose  frail  help  yon  startled  spider  fled 

Down  the  tall  spear  grass  from  his  swinging  bed, 

Is  scarce  more  fine ; 

And  as  the  tangled  skein 

Unravels  in  my  hands, 

Betwixt  me  and  the  noonday  light 

A  veil  seems  lifted,  and  for  miles  and  miles 

The  landscape  broadens  on  my  sight, 

As  in  the  little  boll  there  lurked  a  spell 

Like  that  which  in  the  ocean  shell, 

With  mystic  sound, 

Breaks  down  the  narrow  walls  that  hem  us  round, 

And  turns  some  city  land 

Into  the  restless  main, 

With  all  its  capes  and  isles  I 

Yonder  bird, 

Which  floats,  as  if  at  rest. 

In  those  blue  tracts  above  the  thunder,  where 

No  vapors  cloud  the  stainless  air, 

And  never  sound  is  heard, 

Unless  at  such  rare  time 

When,  from  the  City  of  the  Blest, 

Kings  down  some  golden  chime, — 

Sees  not  from  his  high  place 

So  vast  a  cirque  of  summer  space 


280  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARA.NTH. 

As  widens  round  me  in  one  mighty  field, 

Which,  rimmed  by  seas  and  sands, 

Doth  hail  its  earliest  daylight  in  the  beams 

Of  gray  Atlantic  dawns  ; 

And,  broad  as  realms  made  up  of  many  lands, 

Is  lost  afar 

Behind  the  crimson  hills  and  purple  lawns, 

Of  sunset,  among  the  plains  which  roll  their  streams 

Against  the  Evening  Star ! 

And  lo  ! 

To  the  remotest  point  of  sight, 

Although  I  gaze  upon  no  waste  of  snow, 

The  endless  field  is  white ; 

And  the  whole  landscape  glows, 

For  many  a  shining  league  away, 

With  such  accumulated  light 

As  Polar  lands  would  flash  beneath  a  tropic  day  I 

Nor  lack  there  (for  the  vision  grows, 

And  the  small  charm  within  my  hands — 

More  potent  even  than  the  fabled  one 

Which  oped  whatever  golden  mystery 

Lay  hid  in  fairy  wood  or  magic  vale — 

The  curious  ointment  of  the  Arabian  tale — 

Beyond  all  mortal  sense 

Doth  stretch  my  sight's  horizon,  and  I  see 

Beneath  its  simple  influence, 

As  if,  with  Uriel's  crown, 

I  stood  in  some  great  temple  of  the  Sun, 

And  looked  as  Uriel  down,) 

.N"or  lack  there  pastures  rich,  and  fields  all  green 

With  all  the  common  gifts  of  God, 

For  temperate  airs  and  torrid  sheen 

Weave  Edens  of  the  sod. 


OF  THE 

TJNIVEKSITY 


THE   COTTON   BOKLT^  281 


Through  lands  which  look  one  billowy  sea  of  gold, 
Broad  rivers  wind  their  devious  ways  ; 
A  hundred  isles  in  their  embraces  fold 
A  hundred  luminous  bays  ; 
.And  through  yon  purple  haze 

Vast  mountains  lift  their  plumed  peaks  cloud  —  crowned 
And,  save  where  up  their  sides  the  ploughman  creeps, 
An  unknown  forest  girds  them  grandly  round, 
In  whose  dark  shades  a  future  navy  sleeps  ! 
Ye  stars,  which  though  unseen,  yet  with  me  gaze 
Upon  this  loveliest  fragment  of  the  earth  ! 
"Thou  sun,  that  kindlest  all  thy  gentlest  rays 
Above  it,  as  to  light  a  favorite  hearth  ! 
Ye  clouds,  that  in  your  temples  in  the  "West 
See  nothing  brighter  than  its  humblest  flowers  1 
And  you,  ye  winds,  that  on  the  ocean's  breast 
Are  kissed  to  coolness  ere  ye  reach  its  bowers  ! 
Bear  witness  with  me  in  my  song  of  praise, 
And  tell  the  world,  that  since  the  world  began, 
No  fairer  land  hath  fired  a  poet's  lays, 
Or  given  a  home  to  man  ! 

But  these  are  charms  already  widely  blown  1 

His  be  the  meed  whose  pencil's  trace 

Hath  touched  our  very  swamps  with  grace, 

And  round  whose  tuneful  way 

All  Southern  laurels  bloom  ; 

The  poet  of  "  The  Woodlands  "  unto  whom 

Alike  are  known 

The  flute's  low  breathing  and  the  trumpet's  tone, 

And  the  soft  west-  wind's  sighs  ; 

But  who  shall  utter  all  the  debt, 

O  Land  !  wherein  all  powers  are  met 


282  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

That  bind  a  people's  heart, 

The  world  doth  owe  th.ee  at  this  day, 

And  which  it  never  can  repay, 

Yet  scarcely  deigns  to  own  ! 

Where  sleeps  the  poet  who  shall  fitly  sing 

The  source  wherefrom  doth  spring 

The  mighty  commerce  which,  confined 

To  the  mean  channels  of  no  selfish  marts, 

Goes  out  to  every  shore 

Of  this  broad  earth,  and  throngs  the  sea  with  ships 

That  bear  no  thunders  ;  hushes  hungry  lips 

In  alien  lands ; 

Joins  with  a  delicate  web  remotest  strands ; 

And  gladdening  rich  and  poor, 

Doth  gild  Parisian  domes, 

Or  feed  the  cottage  smoke  of  English  homes, 

And  only  bounds  its  blessings  by  mankind  ! 

In  offices  like  these  thy  mission  lies, 

My  country !  and  it  shall  not  end 

As  long  as  rain  shall  fall  and  Heaven  bend 

In  blue  above  thee ;  though  thy  foes  be  hard 

And  cruel  as  their  weapons,  it  shall  guard 

Thy  hearthstones  as  a  bulwark ;  make  thee  great 

In  white  and  bloodless  state ; 

And,  haply,  as  the  years  increase — 

Still  working  through  its  humbler  reach 

With  that  large  wisdom  which  the  ages  teach — 

Revive  the  half-dead  dream  of  universal  peace  1 


As  men  who  labor  in  that  mine 

Of  Cornwall,  hollowed  out  beneath  the  bed 

Of  ocean,  when  the  storm  rolls  overhead, 


THE   COTTON  BOLL.  283 

Hear  the  dull  booming  of  the  world  of  brine 
Above  them,  and  the  mighty,  muffled  roar 
Of  winds  and  waters,  and  yet  toil  calmly  on, 
And  split  the  rock,  and  pile  the  massive  ore, 
Or  carve  a  niche,  or  shape  the  arched  roof; 
So  I,  as  calmly,  weave  my  woof 
Of  song,  chanting  the  days  to  come, 
Unsilenced,  though  the  quiet  summer  air 
Stirs  with  the  bruit  of  battles,  and  each  dawn 
Wakes  from  its  starry  silence  to  the  hum 
Of  many  gathering  armies.     Still, 
In  that  we  sometimes  hear 
Upon  the  Northern  winds  the  voice  of  woe 
Not  wholly  drowned  in  triumph,  though  I  know 
The  end  must  crown  us,  and  a  few  brief  years 
Dry  all  our  tears, 

I  may  not  sing  too  gladly.     To  Thy  will 
Eesigned,  0  Lord !  we  cannot  all  forget 
That  there  is  much  even  victory  must  regret 
And,  therefore,  not  too  long 
From  the  great  burden  of  our  country's  wrong 
Delay  our  just  release  ! 
And,  if  it  may  be,  save 
These  sacred  fields  of  peace 
From  stain  of  patriot  or  of  hostile  blood  ! 
Oh,  help  us  Lord !  to  roll  the  crimson  flood 
Back  on  its  course  ;  and,  while  our  banners  wing 
Northward,  strike  with  us  !  till  the  Goth  shall  cling1 
To  his  own  blasted  altar  stones,  and  crave 
Mercy  ;  and  we  shall  grant  it,  and  dictate 
The  lenient  future  of  his  fate, 

There,  where  some  rotting  ships  and  trembling  quays 
Shall  one  day  mark  the  Port  which  ruled  the  West 
ern  seas. 


28tt  THE    SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 


BY   JAMES   B.   EANDALL. 

You  shudder  as  you  think  upon 
The  carnage  of  the  grim  report, 

The  desolation  when  we  won 
The  inner  trenches  of  the  fort. 

But  there  are  deeds  you  may  not  know, 
That  scourge  the  pulses  into  strife  ; 

Dark  memories  of  deathless  woe 
Pointing  the  bayonet  and  knife. 

The  house  is  ashes  where  I  dwelt, 
Beyond  the  mighty  inland  sea ; 

The  tombstones  shattered  where  I  knelt, 
By  that  old  church  at  Point  Coupee. 

The  Yankee  fiends  that  came  with  fire, 
Camped  on  the  consecrated  sod, 

And  trampled  in  the  dust  and  mire 
The  Holy  Eucharist  of  Grod ! 

The  spot  where  darling  mother  sleeps, 
Beneath  the  glimpse  of  yon  sad  moon, 

Is  crushed,  with  splintered  marble  heaps, 
To  stall  the  horse  of  some  dragoon. 

God !  when  I  ponder  that  black  day 
It  makes  my  frantic  spirit  wince  ; 

I  marched — with  Longstreet — far  away, 
But  have  beheld  the  ravage  since. 


AT   FOKT   PILLOW.  285 

The  tears  are  hot  upon  my  face, 

When  thinking  what  black  fate  befell 

The  only  sister  of  our  race — 
A  thing  too  horrible  to  tell. 

They  say,  that  ere  her  senses  fled, 

She  rescue  of  her  brothers  cried  ; 
Then  feebly  bowed  her  stricken  head, 

Too  pure  to  live  thus — so  she  died  I 

Two  of  those  brothers  heard  no  plea  ; 

With  their  proud  hearts  forever  still- 
John,  shrouded  by  the  Tennessee, 

And  Arthur  there  at  Malvern  Hill. 

But  I  have  heard  it  everywhere, 

Vibrating  like  a  passing  knell ; 
'Tis  as  perpetual  as  the  air, 

And  solemn  as  a  funeral  bell. 

By  scorched  lagoon  and  murky  swamp 

My  wrath  was  never  in  the  lurch ; 
I've  killed  the  picket  in  the  camp, 

And  many  a  pilot  on  his  perch. 

"With  steady  rifle,  sharpened  brand, 

A  week  ago  upon  my  steed, 
With  Forrest  and  his  warrior  band, 

I  made  the  hell-hounds  writhe  and  bleed. 

You  should  have  seen  our  leader  go 

Upon  the  battle's  burning  marge, 
Swooping  like  falcon  on  the  foe, 

Heading  the  gray-lines  iron  charge. 


286  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

All  outcasts,  from  our  ruined  marts, 
We  heard  th'  undying  serpent  hiss, 

And  in  the  desert  of  our  hearts 
The  fatal  spell  of  Nemesis. 

The  Southern  yell  rang  loud  and  high 
The  moment  that  we  thundered  in, 

Smiting  the  demons  hip  and  thigh, 
Cleaving  them  to  the  very  chin. 

My  right  arm  bared  for  fiercer  play, 
The  left  one  held  the  rein  in  slack ; 

In  all  the  fury  of  the  fray 

I  sought  the  white  man,  not  the  black. 

The  dabbled  clots  of  brain  and  gore 
Across  the  swirling  sabres  ran  ; 

To  me  each  brutal  vision  bore 
The  front  of  one  accursed  man. 

Throbbing  along  the  frenzied  vein 

My  blood  seemed  kindling  into  song — 

The  death  dirge  of  the  sacred  slain, 
The  slogan  of  immortal  wrong. 

It  glared  athwart  the  dripping  glaves, 
It  blazed  in  each  avenging  eye — 

The  thought  of  desecrated  graves, 

And  some  lone  sister's  desperate  cry  I 


AT  FORT   PILLOW.  287 


BY    W.     WINSTON    FONTAINE,  VIRGINIA. 

WHEN  golden  lines  of  evening  light 

Along  the  tops  of  mountains  rest ; 
When  summer  winds  in  gentle  flight 

With  pinions  touch  the  river's  breast ; 
When  curling  smoke  in  fleecy  wreaths 

Winds  upward  through  the  lucid  air ; 
When  westward  some  white  cloud-sail  heaves, 

There  often  walks  a  lady  fair. 

A  lady  fair,  with  pensive  eyes — 

With  trace  of  pain  upon  her  brow. 
The  lilies  hear  grief-laden  sighs ; 

The  waters  listen  in  their  flow. 
The  lady  walks  the  river  shore  , 

Her  vision  in  the  distance  dwells. 
Why  lonely  mourns  the  maiden  pure  ? 

Her  chamber  wall  the  secret  tells  1 

A  portrait  hangs  upon  the  wall : 

A  soldier  in  Confederate  gray — 
A  youthful  figure,  graceful,  tall — 

A  face  the  foeman  shuns  in  fray ; 
A  face  the  infant  fondly  loves  ; — 

An  eye,  wherein  the  eagle's  glance 
Melts  in  the  softness  of  the  dove's, 

And  all  the  warmer  feelings  dance. 

There  hangs  above  the  warrior's  head 
A  knightly  sword  with  many  a  dent, 


288 


A  colonel's  sash,  a  banner  red, 
By  sabre-stroke  and  bullet  rent. 

Upon  the  banner's  silken  fold 
Gleams,  first  Manassas'  field  of  fame  — 

And  many  another  battle  bold, 

-    With  Petersburg's  illustrious  name. 

When  on  the  April's  breeze  there  rang 

The  cheering  note  of  bugle  wild, 
A  score  of  sabres  fiercely  sang  — 

And  proud  Virginia  lost  a  child  ! 
They  bore  him  to  his  plighted  bride 

Upon  the  flag  her  fingers  wrought  ! 
No  braver  son  for  freedom  died  ! 

In  holier  cause  no  warrior  fought  I 
KICHMOND  ENQUEREB. 


"It  is  ordered  that  hereafter  when  any  female  shall,  by  word,  ge&« 
ture,  or  movement,  insult  or  show  contempt  for  any  officer  or  sol 
dier  of  the  United  States,  she  shatt  be  regarded  and  held  liable  to  be 
treated  as  a  looman  of  the  town,  plying  her  vocation. " — BUTLEK'S  ORDER. 
AT  NEW  OELEANS. 

BY  PAUL  H.  HAYNE. 

AYE  !  drop  the  treacherous  mask  !  throw  by 
The  cloak  which  veiled  thine  instincts  fell, 

Stand  forth  thou  base  incarnate  lie, 
Stamped  with  the  signet  brand  of  hell 

At  last  we  view  thee  as  thou  art — 

A  trickster  with  a  demon's  heart 


THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH.  289 

Off  with  disguise  !  no  quarter  now 
To  rebel  honor !  thou  wouldst  strike 

Hot  blushes  up  the  anguished  brow, 
And  murder  fame  and  strength  alike. 

Beware  !  ten  million's  hearts  aflame 

Will  burn  with  hate  thou  canst  not  tame. 

We  know  thee  now !  we  know  thy  race  I 
Thy  dreadful  purpose  stands  revealed, 

Naked  before  the  nation's  face ! 

Comrades !  let  mercy's  fount  be  sealed, 

While  the  black  banner  courts  the  wind 

And  cursed  be  he  who  lags  behind ! 

0  !  soldiers,  husbands,  brothers,  sires  I 
Think  that  each  stalwart  blow  ye  give 

Shall  quench  the  rage  of  lustful  fires, 
And  bid  your  glorious  women  live 
Pure  from  a  wrong  whose  tainted  breath 
Were  fouler  than  the  foulest  death. 

1 I  soldiers,  lovers,  Christians,  men  I 
Think  that  each  breeze  that  floats  and  dies 

O'er  the  red  field,  from  mount  or  glen, 
Is  burdened  with  a  maiden's  sighs ; 
And  each  false  soul  that  turns  to  flee, 
Consigns  his  love  to  infamy ! 

No  pity  !  let  your  thirsty  brands, 
Drink  their  warm  fill  at  caitiff  veins, 

Dip  deep  in  blood  your  wrathful  hands, 
Nor  pause  to  wipe  those  crimson  stains. 

Slay  I  slay !  with  ruthless  sword  and  will, 

The  God  of  vengeance  bids  you  "  kill  1" 


290  LINES   FEOM  THE   HON. 


Yes  !  but  there's  one  who  must  not  die 
In  battle  harness !  one  for  whom 

Lurks  in  the  darkness  silently 
Another  and  a  sterner  doom ! 

A  warrior's  end  should  crown  the  brave, 

For  him  strong  cord  and  felon  grave  1 

As  loathsome  charnel  vapors  melt, 

Swept  by  the  rushing  winds  to  nought, 

So  may  this  fiend  of  lust  and  guilt 

Die  like  a  nightmare's  hideous  thought. 

Nought  left  to  mark  the  monster's  name, 

Save — immortality  of  shame ! 


ANON. 


WHAT  !  clasp  your  red  hands,  and  with  brotherly  trust, 
Give  our  faith  to  the  cheat  you  called  Union,  before  ? 

The  flag  of  our  Freedom  drag  down  to  the  dust, 

And  be  scourged  with  the  stripes  from  its  folds  that 
we  tore  ? 

Are  you  mad?     Can  it  be  you  have  souls  of  your  own, 
And  believe    love    can  blossom  from    treacherous 

wrong  ? 
Do  you  think  that  men's  hearts  can  be  turned  into 

stone, 
And  their  pulses  still  leap  to  the  Syren's  false  song  ? 


THE  SOUTHERN  AMAEANTH.  291 

Has  the  Puritan  rage  for  dominion  and  gold 

So  denied  every  well-spring  of  feeling  and  thought, 

That  because  to  a  despot  yourselves  you  have  sold, 
You  believe  pride  and  honor  but  wait  to  be  bought  ? 

We  asked  for  our  rights,  and  you  answered  with  blows — 
For  brotherhood  pleaded — you  gave  us  your  curse — 

A  Union  of  hate  was  the  Union  you  choose, 

And  we'll  give  you  none  other — for  better  for  worse  1 

You  thought  it  was  cheapest  to  smite  and  destroy — 
It  would  cost  less,  you  hoped,  to  be  cruel  than  just — • 

And  kindred  and  manhood  went  down,  in  your  joy 
Over  havoc  and  murder  and  rapine  and  lust. 

You  have  wasted  our  fields,  and  have  strewn  them  with 

slain — 
You  have  written  your  wrath  on  each  homestead's 

black  wall — 

From  shell-riven  forest,  and  blood-blighted  plain 
Are  you  deaf — we  are  not — to  the  voices  that  call  ? 

There  are  deeds  you  rejoice  in,  a  man  may  not  name, 
And  deeds  even  fouler  to  do  you  have  striven — 

We   should  blush  before   men,  as  joint  heirs  of  your 

shame, 
And  be  false  before  God,  if  we  said  they're  forgiven ! 

But  Peace !  you  can  have  it !     There  was  not  a  day, 
Long  after  you  came  with  the  torch  and  the  sword, 

That  you  might  not  have  swept  the  wild  war-clouds 

away, 
With  the  breath  of  one  gentle  and  generous  word  ! 


292  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

'Tis  too  late  for  words  now,  and  as  long  as  you  tread 
The   soil   you  have  ravaged — come  weal   or  come 
woe — 

There  is  battle  between  us,  and,  living  or  dead, 
Accursed  be  the  dastard  who  is  not  your  foe ! 

You  boast  yourselves  greater  and  wiser  than  we — 
To   your  wisdom   and  greatness   go  back   and   be 
blest— 

We  claim  but  Heaven's  gift  to  us  both — to  be  free  ! 
That  gift  we  will  have — and  we  leave  you  the  rest 

We  leave  you  your  glories — all  things  you  hold  good — 
The  rights  you  surrender — the  laws  that  you  break — 

Religion, — whose  rubric  is  written  in  blood — 
And  truth  that  a  Pope  or  a  Seward  can  speak ! 

We  leave  you  your  Butler — pure  type  of  your  race — 
With  the  fleet-footed  Banks,  and  the  gentle  MclS"eillr 

And  all  the  grand  army  of  heroes,  your  Chase 
Has  marshalled  around  him,  to  lie  and  to  steal ! 

No  tithe  of  these  firstlings  we  covet  or  claim — 
God  keep  them,  to  bless  you,  a  century  still ! 

We  ask  for  no  share  in  your  lands  or  your  fame — 
Only  leave  us  our  own,  and  have  Peace  when  you 
will ! 

Yes    Peace — while    you're    peaceful — but   Union,   no 
never ! 

The  lightnings  of  Heaven  have  rifted  that  chain ! 
Whom  Grod  puts  asunder,  no  juggle  can  ever, 

With  blasphemous  vows,  bind  together  again  ! 

FBOM  THE  MAKYLAND  MAIL  BAG,  1863. 


REBELS, 'TIS  A  GLORIOUS  NAME.         293 

'tit  & 


BY  BEV.    MB.    GABESCHE,    ST.    LOUIS  MO. 

EEBELS  !     'Tis  a  holy  name, 

The  name  our  fathers  bore, 
When  battling  in  the  cause  of  right 
Against  the  tyrant  in  his  might, 

In  the  dark  days  of  yore. 

Eebels  !     "Pis  our  family  name, 

Our  father — Washington — 
Was  the  arch-rebel  in  the  fight — 
And  gave  the  name  to  us,  a  right 

Of  father  unto  son. 

Eebels !     'Tis  our  given  name, 

Our  mother,  Liberty, 
Eeceived  the  title  with  her  fame, 
In  days  of  grief,  of  fear  and  shame, 

When  at  her  breast  were  we. 

Rebels !     'Tis  our  sealed  name 

A  baptism  of  blood ! 
The  war — aye,  the  din  of  strife — 
The  fearful  contest,  life  for  life, 

The  mingled  crimson  flood. 

Eebels  !     'Tis  a  patriot  name ! 

In  struggle  it  was  given, 
We  bore  it  then  when  tyrants  raved, 
And  through  their  curses  'twas  engraved 

On  the  Doomsday  book  of  Heaven ! 


294  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH- 

Eebels  !     'Tis  our  fighting  name,, 

For  peace  rules  o'er  the  land, 
Until  they  speak  of  craven  woe. 
Until  our  rights  receive  a  blow, 
From  foe's  or  brother's  hand ! 

Eebels  !     'Tis  our  dying  name, 

For  although  life  is  dear, 
Yet  freemen  born  and  freemen  bred,} 
"We'd  rather  sleep  as  freemen,  dead, 
Than  live  in  slavish  fear. 

Then  call  us  Eebels,  if  you  will, 

We  glory  in  the  name  ; 
For  bending  under  unjust  laws, 
And  swearing  faith  to  unjust  cause,, 
We  count  a  greater  shame. 


f w,  Ml  w  filwto. 

BY  GEN.  ALBEBT  PIKE,  AEKANSAS. 

YES,  call  us  rebels !  'tis  the  name 

Our  patriot  fathers  bore, 
And  by  such  deeds  we'll  hallow  it 

As  they  have  done  before. 
At  Lexington  and  Baltimore 

Was  poured  the  holy  chrism, 
For  freedom  marks  her  sons  with  bloody 

In  sign  of  their  baptism. 


YES,    CALL    US   EEBELS.  295 

Eebels,  in  proud  and  bold  protest 

Against  a  power  unreal ; 
A  unity  which  every  quest 

Proves  false  as  'tis  ideal. 
A  brotherhood  whose  ties  are  chains  ; 

Which  crushes  what  it  holds, 
Like  fabled  Laocoon  of  old, 

Within  the  serpent's  folds. 

Eebels,  against  the  malice  vast, 

Malice  that  nought  disarms, 
Which  fills  the  quiet  of  our  homes 

With  vague  and  dread  alarms, 
Against  the  invader's  daring  feet, 

Against  the  tide  of  wrong, 
Which  has  been  borne,  in  silence  borne, 

But  borne,  perchance  too  long. 

We  should  be  cowards  did  we  crouch 

Beneath  the  lifted  hand, 
Whose  very  wave,  ye  seem  to  think, 

Will  chill  us  where  we  stand. 
Yes,  call  us  rebels !  'tis  a  name 

Which  speaks  of  other  days, 
Of  gallant  deeds,  and  gallant  men 

And  wins  us  to  their  ways. 

Fair  was  the  edifice  they  raised, 

Uplifting  to  the  skies  ; 
A  mighty  Samson  'neath  its  dome 

In  grand  quiescence  lies. 
Dare  not  to  touch  his  noble  limb 

With  thong  or  chain  to  bind, 
Lest  ruin  crush  both  you  and  him 

This  Samson  is  not  blind  ! 


296  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 


'row  tin 


BY  GEOBGE   H.    MH«ES,    MARYLAND. 

GOD  save  the  South  ! 
God  save  the  South  ! 
Her  altars  and  firesides  — 

God  save  the  South  ! 
Now  that  the  war  is  nigh  — 
Now  that  we  arm  to  die  — 
Chanting  our  battle  cry, 

Freedom  or  Death  ! 

God  be  our  shield 
At  home  or  afield, 
Stretch  thine  arm  over  us, 

Strengthen  and  save  ! 
"What  though  they're  five  to  one, 
Forward  each  sire  and  son, 
Strike  till  the  war  is  done, 

Strike  to  the  grave. 

God  make  the  right 
Stronger  than  might  ! 
Millions  would  trample  us 

Down  in  their  pride  ! 
Lay  thou  their  legions  low  ; 
Eoll  back  the  ruthless  foe  ; 
Let  the  proud  spoiler  know 

God's  on  our  side  ! 

Hark  1  honor's  call, 
Summoning  all  — 


GOD   SATE   THE    SOUTH.  297 

Summoning  all  of  us 

Up  to  the  strife. 
Sons  of  the  South  awake  ! 
Strike  till  the  brand  shall  break  I 
Strike  for  dear  honor's  sake, 

Freedom  or  life ! 

Rebels  before 

"Were  our  fathers  of  yore  ; 

BEBELS  !  the  glorious  name 

Washington  lore  ! 
Why,  then  be  ours  the  same 
Title  he  snatched  from  shame ; 
Making  it  first  in  fame, 

Odious  no  more. 

War  to  the  hilt ! 
Theirs  be  the  guilt, 
Who  fetter  the  freemen 

To  ransom  the  slave. 
Up,  then,  and  undismayed, 
Sheathe  not  the  battle-blade, 
Till  the  last  foe  is  laid 

Low  in  the  grave. 

God  save  the  South ! 
God  save  the  South ! 
Dry  the  dim  eyes  that  now 

Follow  our  path. 
Still  let  the  light  feet  rove 
Safe  through  the  orange  grove ; 
Still  keep  the  land  we  love 

Safe  from  all  wrath. 


298  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

God  save  the  South. ! 
God  save  the  South ! 
Her  altars  and  firesides — 

God  save  the  South ! 
For  the  rude  war  is  nigh, 
And  we  must  win  or  die ; 
Chanting  our  battle-cry — 

Freedom  or  Death. 


IN     ME  M  0  RIAM. 

ALAS  !  bright  land  of  forest,  hill  and  dale. 

And  mountain  majesty  all  thunder-robed: 

The  blighting  shadow  of  war's  sulphurous  wings 

Has  darkened  all  thy  happy  homes,  and  made 

Thy  hallowed  sod  one  mighty  sepulchre. 

Thy  young,  thy  noble,  and  thy  brave  went  down, 

And  age  and  innocence  all  mercilessly, 

As  when  the  Orient  breathes  its  poisoned  breath 

O'er  some  plague-stricken  city. 

Long,  long  years, 

With  fond  remembrance  of  youth's  thoughtless  daysr 
And  mingled  joys  of  home  and  young  love's  dreamy 
Come  back  as  yesterday.     A  careless  boy, 
Again  I  lie  beneath  the  branching  arms 
Of  brave  old  oaks,  and  'mid  their  leafy  gloom 
Hear  June  winds  lisping  from  red  clover  fields, 
Or  through  the  summer's  deep'ning  twilight,  watch 
Love's  burning  star  go  down  the  cloudless  West 


VIRGINIA:  IN  MEMOPJAM.  299 

Youth  dreamed  its  aureate  dreams,  and  clustering  hopes 

Unto  fruition  with  young  manhood  grew, 

Until,  Beloved,  around  thy  bridal  brow, 

And  'mid  thy  waving  wealth  of  glossy  tress. 

The  fragrant  orange  hung  its  snowy  bloom  ; 

And  when  in  shady  nooks  the  dogwoods  strewed 

Their  starry  flowers,  and  maples,  crimson  plumed, 

Stood  silent  by  the  plashing  mountain  streams, ' 

In  thy  loved  image  by  our  hearthstone  grew 

The  radiant  beauty  of  our  sinless  child. 

Peace  dwelt  around  us  with  its  thousand  joys, 

And  o'er  broad  swelling  fields  of  yellow  grain 

Glad  Plenty  heaved  her  cereal  sheen  of  gold. 

How  oft  beneath  the  ancestral  oaks  reclined, 

"We  watched  the  winged  clouds  o'er  the  empyrean  float? 

Like  shadowy  barks  that  bear  the  white-robed 

To  the  isles  of  bliss  :  and  heard  from  leafy  copse 

The  quail's  low  whistle,  and  amid  the  flowers 

The  hum  of  wild  bees  laden  with  their  sweets : 

While  'iieath  where  woodbines  propped  the  twittering: 

eaves, 

And  arrowy  swallows  built  their  sheltered  nests ; 
Through  the  thick  fleckered  shade  gay  butterflies 
On  gold-eyed  wings,  like  wandering  sunbeams  went ; 
Peace  laughed  in  every  breeze,  and  sweeter  far 
"Was  the  answering  laughter  of  our  joyous  child. 

War  came ;  its  clarion  blast  shook  thy  red  hills, 
That  erst  but  echoed  back  love's  warbled  strains, 
And  down  thy  green  vales  poured  its  crimson  tide, 
Beloved  old  land.     As  when  black  thunder  clouds 
Break  on  thy  craggy  Alleghanian  brows, 


300  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

And  flood  with,  ruin  all  thy  fruitful  fields, 
So  rolled  in  bloody  waves  the  human  tide. 

Fierce  rose  thy  sons.     From  fertile  plains  that  lie 
Along  the  margin  of  thy  throbbing  main, 
And  misty  glens  where  dewy  kalmais  hang 
Their  cloudy  blooms,  'mid  giant  hills  deep-bosomed, 
They  came,  with  honor  panoplied  and  right, 
And  gleaming  swords  that  fair  hands  girded  on 
With  tearful  eyes — exultant  rose,  and  back 
All  cowering  hurled  the  vaunting  foe. 

Alas! 

That  vain  thy  red  earth  drank  the  redder  tide 
Of  brave  hearts  poured  on  Freedom's  battle  shrines. 
By  frenzied  passions,  fierce,  fanatic,  driven, 
As  wave  on  wave  the  restless  ocean  rolls, 
The  fierce  tornado  of  Hate's  vengeance  swept 
War's  fiery  billows  o'er  thy  bleeding  land  ! 

In  vain  thy  martyr  Hero  died !     In  vain 

Thy  noblest  chieftains  led  their  dwindling  hosts, 

And  firmly  as  thy  granite  mountains  stand, 

Thy  best  and  bravest  stood,  to  honor  true, 

And  ghastly  in  the  sun,  black,  festering,  heaped 

The  corses  of  thy  foes.     Ah !  all  in  vain, 

Gold  bought  and  innumerable  they  came. 

As  on  the  holy  Prophet's  vision  swarmed, 

When  fell  a  star  from  Heaven,  and  from  deep  Hell, 

At  sounding  of  the  angel's  trumpet  rose, 

'Mid  clouds  and  darkness,  dread  Apollyon's  hosts ; 

So  from  the  battle's  grimy  smoke  thy  foes. 


VIEGINIA  :    IN   MEMORIAM.  301 

While  horrid  vengeance  in  their  sulphurous  van, 
With  gory  hands  waved  high  her  flaming  brand, 
Lit  thy  red  pyre  and  laughed  in  fiendish  glee, 
O'er  the  wild  chaos  of  her  glutted  Hate ! 

Lo  !  'mid  black  clouds  of  conflagration  dire, 
While  red-eyed  carnage  shuddering  stands  aghast, 
Sinks  thy  last  sun  behind  the  mountains  blue, 
And  o'er  thy  night  gleams  not  one  cheering  star ! 


Peace  comes  once  more  :  as  breaks  in  eastern  skies, 

Faint  through  gray  clouds,  the  morning's  sickly  light 

To  sorrowing  watcher  o'er  the  voiceless  dead  ! 

In  darkness  clad  she  comes,  and  robes  blood-stained ; 

There  is  no  smile  upon  her  iron  lips, 

No  kindling  brightness  in  her  sunken  eyes, 

No  glowing  splendors  on  her  ghastly  brow  ; — 

The  olive  branch  she  bears  is  glittering  steel. 

The  homeless  orphan's  wail  her  song  of  joy  ! 

Keluctant  hovering  o'er  thy  burning  homes, 

Like  some  sad,  brooding  sprite,  on  restless  wings 

That  long  again  to  try  their  weary  flight, 

She  brings  no  healing  balm  to  widowed  hearts. 

Peace   comes !     Back  through   long  years  the  soldier 

hails 

The  pleasing  memories  of  his  happy  home, 
And  thither  turns  to  mingle  with  his  griefs 
The  soothing  sweets  of  unforgotten  joys. 
Once  more  I  stand  where  once  all  proudly  stood 
My  old  ancestral  home.     Ah !  all  is  changed  1 
Its  crumbling  walls,   where    rolled   the   fierce  flames 

through ; 


802  THE    SOUTHEEN   AMAKAXTH. 

Its  airy  halls,  deep-fissured  gaps.     All  charred 
And  blackened,  far  and  wide  its  rafters  strewn  ; 
The  red  flame's  burning  tips  have  swallowed  up 
The  mementoes  of  my  holy  ones  ; 
And  with  thick  falling  tears,  that  unbid  flow, 
Past  thronging  memories  of  the  olden  time — 
Sad,  solemn  echoes  from  youth's  buried  hopes. 

But  where  are  they  who  still  could  make  this  wild 
A  paradise  of  Joy  ?     Love's  holy  ones  ? 
Two  red  mounds  rise  beside  my  ancient  graves, 
Where  kind  hands  laid  their  weary  hearts  to  rest 
Oone  in  their  brightness  and  their  beauty,  gone — 
And  never  more  o'er  life's  dark  way,  for  me 
Shall  light  of  love  its  glad'ning  radiance  shed. 

•&         *         •&         •&         -sf-x-         *         #> 

The  while  lone,  sad,  and  desolate,  I  sit 
Beside  the  red  graves  of  my  loved  and  lost, 
All  silent  grows  the  busy  insect  world, 
Long  slanting  shadows  mark  the  dewy  grass, 
And  from  the  oak  tree's  branches,  blast  and  bare 
Hoarse  croaks  the  raven  to  the  setting  sun. 

******-5f* 

Farewell !  loved  land  ;  lone,  weary,  worn,  I  go 
"Where'er  the  exile's  wandering  footsteps  lead, 
And  memory's  treasured  wealth  of  sorrows  bear, 
Till  faithful  hands  of  loved  ones  gone  before 
Shall  open,  wide  the  Eternal  Gates !     Farewell ! 

Perhaps  in  after  years,  when  truth  shall  write 
The  bloody  story  of  thy  many  wrongs, 
The  musing  student,  mourning  thy  sad  fate, 
Shall  ask  :  "  Were  thy  JSonian  fountains  dry  ? 


VIRGINIA  :   A    SONNET  303 

Came  there  no  wail  from  broken  harps,  to  tell 

The  widowed  woe  of  thy  black  Desolation, 

Or  rouse  to  daring  once  again  thy  sons  ? 

Did  clanking  fetters  of  the  Tyrant  drown 

The  boasting  legend  of  thy  honored  shield, 

And  still  the  voices  from  thy  mighty  graves  ? 

The  slaves  of  Tyrants  and  the  slaves  of  slaves, 

Ye  kissed  the  hand  that  smote,  and  suppliant  cringed 

To  barter  honor  for  the  Despot's  gold !" 

Ah,  no !  thy  Grenius  points  the  glowing  page, 

"Where  truth  the  stainless  record  of  thy  glory  keeps, 

And  proudly  smiling,  hails  a  brighter  day. 

Thou  art  not  dead,  old  land ;  red  embers  glow 

Beneath  the  ashes  of  thy  blasted  hopes, 

That  yet  shall  light  thy  sacred  altar  fires, 

And  on  thy  cloud-robed  mountains  fearless  still, 

Thy  ancient  Genius  grasps  her  shivered  spear ; 

Proudly  defiant,  waits  the  coming  day 

When  Freedom's  sun  shall  light  the  world  once  more  I 

CITY  OF  MEXICO,  September,  1865. 

FBOM  THE  METROPOLITAN  KECOED. 


A     SONNET. 

BY  MRS.    MAKGAEET  J.    PEESTON. 


OEANDLY  thou  fillest  the  world's  eye  to-day 

My  proud  Virginia !     When  the  gage  was  thrown — 
The  deadly  gage  of  battle — thou,  thou  alone, 

Strong  in  thy  self-control,  didst  stoop  to  lay 


304  THE   SOUTHERN   AMAKANTH. 

The  olive-branch  thereon,  and  calmly  pray 

"We  might  have  peace  the  rather.     When  the  foe 
Turned  scornfully  upon  thee, — bade  thee  go, 

And  whistled  up  his  war-hounds,  then — the  way 
Of  duty  full  before  thee, — thou  didst  spring 
Into  the  centre  of  the  martial  ring — 

Thy  brave  blood  boiling,  and  thy  glorious  eye 
Shot  with  heroic  fire,  and  swear  to  claim 
Sublimest  victory  in  God's  own  name, — 

Or,  wrapped  in  robes  of  martyrdom, — to  die  I 


rl  tint 


April  102A,  1865. 

BY  FLORENCE  ANDERSON,  KENTUCKY. 

HAVE  we  wept  till  our  eyes  were  dim  with  tears, 
Have  we  borne  the  sorrows  of  four  long  years, 

Only  to  meet  this  sight  ? 
O  merciful  God,  can  it  really  be 
This  downfall  awaits  our  gallant  Lee, 

And  the  cause  we  counted  right  ? 

Have  we  known  this  bitter,  bitter  pain, 
Have  all  our  dear  ones  died  in  vain  ? 

Has  God  forsaken  quite  ? 
Is  this  the  answer  to  every  prayer, 
This  anguish  of  deep,  untold  despair, 

This  spirit-scathing  blight  ? 


SURRENDER   OF   THE   A.  N.   VA.  305 

Heart-broken  we  kneel  on  the  bloody  sod, 
We  hide  from  the  wrath  of  our  angry  God, 

Who  bows  us  in  the  dust. 
We  heed  not  the  sneer  of  the  insolent  foe, 
But  that  THOU,  O  God !  should  forsake  us  so — 

In  whom  was  our  only  trust ! 


Even  strong  men  weep !  the  men  who  stand 
Fast  in  defence  of  our  native  land, 

Those  gallant  hearts  and  brave  ; 
They  wept  not  the  souls  who,  fighting,  fell, — 
For  the  hero's  death  became  them  well — 

And  they  feared  not  the  hero's  grave. 

They  have  marched  through  long  and  stormy  nights, 
They  have  borne  the  brunt  of  a  hundred  fights, 

And  their  courage  never  failed ; 
Hunger,  and  cold,  and  summer  heat, 
They  have  felt  on  the  march  and  the  long  retreat, 

Yet  their  brave  hearts  never  quailed. 

Now,  all  these  hardships  seem  real  bliss 
Compared  with  the  grief  of  a  scene  like  this, 

This  speechless,  wordless  woe  ; 
That  LEE,  at  the  head  of  his  faithful  band, 
The  flower  and  pride  of  our  Southern  Land, 

Must  yield  to  the  hated  foe ! 


The  conquered  foe  of  a  hundred  fields, 
The  foe  that,  conquering,  the  laurel  yields 
LEE'S  sad,  stern  brow  to  grace ; 


306  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

For  lie,  with  the  pain  of  defeat  in  his  heart, 
Will  bear  in  history  the  nobler  part, 

And  fill  the  loftier  place  ! 
Scatter  the  dust  on  each  bowed  head, — 
Happy,  thrice  happy,  the  honored  dead, 

Who  sleep  their  last,  long  sleep ; 
For  we  who  live  in  the  coming  years, 
Beholding  days  with  phantom  fears — 

What  can  we  do  but  weep  ? 


BY  MBS.    MAHGAEET  J.    PKESTON. 
I. 

UNCONQUEKED  captive !  close  thine  eye, 
And  draw  the  ashen  sackcloth  o'er, 
And  in  thy  speechless  woe  deplore 

The  fate  that  would  not  let  thee  die ! 

II. 

The  arm  that  wore  the  shield,  strip  bare ; 
The  hand  that  held  the  martial  rein, 
And  hurled  the  spear  on  many  a  plain — 

Stretch — till  they  clasp  the  shackles  there ! 

III. 

The  foot  that  once  could  crush  the  crown, 
Must  drag  the  fetters,  till  it  bleed 
Beneath  their  weight : — thou  dost  not  need 

It  now,  to  tread  the  tyrant  down. 


THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH.  30  7 

IY. 

Thou  thought's!  him  vanquished — boastful  trust  I 
His  lance  in  twain — his  sword  a  wreck — • 
But  with  his  heel  upon  thy  neck, 

He  holds  thee  prostrate  in  the  dust ! 

Y. 

Bend  though  thou.  must  beneath  his  will, 
Let  not  one  abject  moan  have  place  : 
But  with  majestic,  silent  grace, 

Maintain  thy  regal  bearing  still. 

YI. 

Look  back  to  all  thy  storied  past, 

And  sit  erect  in  conscious  pride : 

No  grander  heroes  ever  died — 
No  sterner  battled  to  the  last ! 

YII. 

Weep  if  thou  wilt,  with  proud,  sad  mem, 
Thy  blasted  hopes—  thy  peace  undone, — 
Yet  brave,  live  on, — nor  seek  to  shun 

Thy  fate,  like  Egypt's  conquered  Queen. 

YIII. 

Though  forced  a  captive's  place  to  fill, 

In  the  triumphal  train, — yet  there, 

Superbly,  like  Zenobia  wear 
Thy  chain, —  Virginia  victrix  still ! 

April  9th,  1865. 


308  OUK  FAILURE. 


Of  Chief  Justice  Marshall,  at  Richmond. 

BY   INNIS   EANDOLPH. 

are  glad  to  see  you,  John  Marshall,  my  boy, 
So  fresh  from  the  chisel  of  Eogers  ! 
Go  take  your  stand  on  the  Monument  there, 
Along  with  the  other  old  codgers : 
"With  Washington,  Jeiferson,  Henry,  and  such, 
Who  sinned  with  a  great  transgression, 
In  their  old-fashioned  notions  of  Freedom  and  Eight 
And  their  hatred  of  Wrong  and  Oppression  ! 

You  come  rather  late  to  your  pedestal,  John, 

Ah,  sooner  you  should  have  been  here, 

For  the  volume  you  hold  is  no  longer  the  law, 

And  this  is  no  longer  Virginia. 

The  old  "  Marshall  law  "  you  expounded  of  yore, 

Is  now  not  at  all  to  the  purpose ; 

And  the  new  "martial  law"  of  the  new  Brigadier 

Is  stronger  than  Habeas  Corpus. 

So  keep  the  volume  shut  with  care 

For  the  days  of  the  law  are  over, 

And  it  needs  all  your  brass  to  be  holding,  it  there 

With  JUSTICE  inscribed  on  the  cover. 
Could  life  awaken  the  limbs  of  bronze, 
And  blaze  in  the  burnished  eye ; 
What  would  ye  do  with  your  moment  of  life, 
Ye  men  of  the  days  gone  by  ? 
Would  ye  chide  us,  pity  us,  blush  or  weep — 
Ye  men  of  the  days  gone  by  ? 

Woul I  Jefferson  tear  up  the  scroll  he  holds 


THE  SOUTHERN  AM&RANTH.  809 

That  time  lias  proven  a  lie  ? 

Would  Marshall  shut  the  volume  of  law 

And  lay  it  down  with  a  sigh  ? 

Would  Mason  roll  up  the  Bill  of  Eights 

From  a  race  unworthy  to  scan  it  ? 

Would  Henry  dash  down  the  eloquent  sword, 

And  clang  it  against  the  granite  ? 

And  Washington,  seated  in  massy  strength, 

On  the  charger  that  paws  the  air, 

Could  he  see  his  sons  in  their  deep  disgrace — 

Would  he  ride  so  proudly  there  ? 
lie  would  get  him  down  from  his  big  brass  horse, 
And  cover  his  face  at  our  shame ; 
For  the  land  of  his  birth  is  now  "District  One" — 
VIRGINIA,   was  once  the  name. 

KICHMOND  ENQTJIBEB. 


BY  JOHN  E.    THOMPSON. 

"  The  name  of  the  commonwealth  is  past  and  gone." 

[BYKON.    OOe  to  Venice, 

CONSUMMATUM — the  work  of  destruction  is  done, 
The  race  of  the  first  of  the  States  has  been  run, 
The  guile  of  her  foes  finds  her  triumph  at  last, 
And  VIRGINIA,  like  Poland,  belongs  to  the  past 

How  her  story  the  heart's  deepest  reverence  stirs, 
What  a  stature,  antique  and  heroic,  was  hers, 
What  a  grace,  what  a  glory,  her  presence  adorning, 
In  the  fresh,  dewy  light  of  Liberty's  morning. 


310  VIRGINIA    FUIT. 

In  that  day  of  her  early  espousals  she  came 
With  her  dowry  of  empire,  her  birthright  of  famer 
To  enrich  and  ennoble  on  land  and  on  sea 
The  Kepublic  her  Washington's  valor  made  free. 

And  what  greatness  resplendent  it  won,  through  her 

love, 

Let  the  eloquent  page  of  the  annalist  prove, 
Wherein,  though  the  page  is  now  blotted  with  tears, 
Virginia  but  ever  as  Empress  appears. 

The  nation's  decrees  did  her  counsellors  mould,* 
And  her  orators'  words  were  as  apples  of  gold  ; 
Her  captains  triumphant,  afloat  and  ashore, 
Gave  the  banner  of  Union  the  brightness  it  bore. 

And  for  this,  that  her  children  disgraced  not  their  sires^ 
That  they  strove  to  keep  lighted  their  liberty  fires, 
That  they  hailed  her  as  rightfully  wearing-  the  crown^ 
For  this,  have  her  enemies  trampled  her  down. 

How  low  she  lies  now,  stript  of  half  her  domain, 
Bewailing  her  sons  who  in  battle  were  slain, 
With  the  shade  of  an  infinite  sadness  upon  her, 
And  all  she  loved  dearest,  all  lost  but  her  honor  I 

Thank  Heaven !  that  is  safe  :  with  a  madness  accurst, 
Let  the  tyrants  that  rule  for  the  hour  do  their  worst ; 
She  may  bleed  'neath  the  heel  of  the  hireling  invader, 
They  may  spoil,  they  may  rend,  but  they  cannot  de 
grade  her. 

*  "  To  mould  a  mighty  State's  decrees, 
And  shape  the  whisper  of  the  throne. 

[TENNYSON.—"  In  Memoriam." 


THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH.  311 

Let  them  subjugate  nature — enraged,  let  them  seek 
To  drain  the  broad  waste  of  the  blue  Chesapeake, 
Let  them  seal  up  the  sources  whence  rushes  Bull  Kun, 
And  shut  out  from  the  Yalley  the  face  of  the  sun : 

Let  them  falsify  fact,  without  conscience  or  ruth. 
Let  them  paralyze  Justice  and  manacle  Truth  ; 
(Fair  Truth,  we  accept  of  their  poet  the  line, 
That  the  years  of  the  Godhead  eternal  are  thine.) 

Yet  the  record  remains  :  in  the  garment  of  song 
The  legend  of  Jackson  her  praise  shall  prolong, 
And  Veritas  Virens,  crushed  down  though  it  be, 
Shall  spring  to  the  light  in  the  story  of  LEE  ! 

From  the  anguish  abysmal  where  prostrate  she  lies ; 
YIEGINIA  the  Desolate,  never  may  rise ; 
For  already  the  iron  hath  entered  her  soul, 
And  behold,  at  the  fountain  all  broken  the  bowl ; 

But  of  just  retribution  there  cometh  the  day  ; 
The  Master  has  promised  it — I  WILL  KEPAY — 
And  wo  to  the  people  He  smites  with  His  rod 
In  that  terrible  day  of  the  vengeance  of  Grod  I 
OLD  GUAED. 


U  jimiym  ltpwfe< 


BY  FANNY  DOWNING. 

THEY  have  torn  off  the  crown  from  her  beautiful  brow, 
Yet  she  never  seemed  half  so  majestic  as  now, 
When  she  stands  in  the  strength  of  her  sorrow  sublime 
As  she  ever  stood,  noblest  and  best  of  her  time  ! 


312  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

They  "have   wiped  from  the  roll  of  their  country  her 

name, 

Co-existent  with  glory,  co-equal  with  fame ; 
On  the  record  of  Time  it  will  grandly  endure, 
As  unchangeably  bright  as  her  honor  is  pure  ! 

They  have  stolen  her  crest,  which  for  ages  has  blazed, 
And  the  motto  she  loves  from  its  surface  erased, 
But  in  vain  is  their  malice,  and  futile  their  art, 
For  the  seal  of  Virginia  is  stamped  on  the  heart  1 

Sic  SEMPER  TYRANNIS  ! — We  whisper  it  low, 
"While  the  hearts  in  our  bosoms  exultantly  glow 
As  we  think  of  the  time  in  its  sure-coming  course, 
We  will  prove  it  by  deeds  with  a  terrible  force. 

Not  the  we  of  this  age ! — WE  shall  pass  from  our  pain 

Ere  the  bonds  of  Virginia  are  sundered  in  twain ; 

Yet  the  day  when   her  children   shall  free   her,  shall 

dawn, 
Just  as  surely  as  earth  in  her  orbit  rolls  on  ! 

On  her  regal  white   shoulders  they  press  down  their 

yoke, 

But  her  mind  is  unfettered,  her  spirit  unbroke ; 
A  woman  sore  weakened,  her  form  they  control, 
But  the  points  of  their  arrows  turn  blunt  from  her  soul  I 

Like  vultures  they  swoop  in  a  clamorous  swarm, 
And  their  talons  imprint  in  her  delicate  form ; 
Her  treasures  they  covet,  yet  blacken  and  blot, 
While  parting  her  garments,  and  casting  the  lot  I 


SIC   SEMPER   TYRANNIS.  313 

As  the  Jews  loved  the  Romans  that  horrible  night 
"When  the  Shechinah  took  from  the  Temple  its  flight, 
As  the  Pole  loves  the  Cossack,  and  Greeks   love  the 

Turk, 
We  Virginians  love  those   who   have   compassed  this 

work ! 

Yes,  we  love  them !     As  Anthony,  righteous  in  wrath, 
Loved  Brutus,  the  murderer  polluting  his  path, 
When  in  brazen  disgrace  he  defiantly  stood, 
His  hands  redly  reeking  with  Caesar's  warm  blood ! 

Yes,  we  love  them !     As  Eachel,  whose  baby  lay  dead, 
Its  body  apart  from  its  innocent  head, 
Stung  to  madness  by  pain,  and  infuriate  with  hate, 
In  the  depth  of  her  anguish,  loved  Herod  the  Great ! 

Though  our  faces  must  wear  in  their  presence  no  frown, 
In  our  souls  we  despise  them  and  trample  them  down ; 
To  Virginia  in  chains  we  exultingly  cling, 
While  we  spurn  them  away  as  a  leperous  thing ! 

Not  the  wrath  of  a  day,  nor  a  season,  is  ours ; 
At  the  white  heat  of  passion  it  ceaselessly  towers ; 
We  will  keep  it  aglow,  and  its  red  sparks  shall  run 
Through  the  veins  of  Virginians  from  mother  to  son  I 

For  Virginia  has  daughters  who  stand  at  her  side, 
And  her  spoilers  in  dignified  silence  deride, 
While  serene  in  their  strength,  every  feeling  controlled, 
Into  heroes  the  men  of  the  future  they  mould ! 

'Tis  true  they  are  infants  now  hushed  on  the  breast, 
But  we  teach  them  a  lesson  no  tyrant  shall  wrest ; 


314:  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Sic  SEMPER  TYRANNTS  we  sow  with  their  prayers — 
They  will  reap  with  rejoicing  the  harvest  it  bears  ! 

To  Virginia,  now  prostrate,  the  cross  and  the  sword, 
But  her  future  is  fair  in  the  hand  of  the  Lord. 
When  His  vengeance  sweeps  down  in  a  fiery  tide, 
Sh.3  shall  shine  as  the  gold  that  is  seven  times  t-ried ! 

From  Grod's  own  chossn  people,  His  arm  was  removed 

While  through  Palestine  Sisera  raged  unreproved, 

Till   the  work  which  the   Lord  had    appointed    was 

wrought, 
When  the  stars  in  their  courses  for  Deborah  fought ! 

Thou  Mother  in  Israel,  Virginia,  shalt  wake, 

And  thy  bands  of  captivity  captive  shall  take ; 

At  thy  feet  they  shall  bow,  they  shall  crouch,  they  shall 

crawl. 
With  Sic  SEMPER  TYRANNIS  !  thou'lt  trample  them  all ! 

They  humble  Virginia !     As  well  may  they  try 
To  sully  the  stars  on  Heaven's  battlements  high  ! 
When  they  crumble  to  nothing,  VIRGINIA  shall  shine 
Eternal,  immutable,  glorious,  divine  ! 


Written  on  reading   Gen.    Wade  Hampton's  Address  to  the  people 
South  Carolina.    November,  1865. 


BY.  W.  "W.  MANN. 


HAMPTON  with  Hamden,  equal  heir  of  glory, 
Shall,  hand  in  hand,  go  down  in  living  story ; 


TRIBUTE   TO   A   HEEO.  315 

A  people's  pride,  shall  shine  in  history's  van, 

Model  of  hero,  patriot,  and  man. 

His  name,  by  mothers  taught  to  list'ning  sons, 

Second  to  none — or  none  but  Washington's, 

With.  Roman  virtue  shall  those  sons  inspire, 

To  turn  the  people  from  insensate  ire, 

With  patriot  voice  applauding  senates  sway, 

And  point  to  glory's  height,  the  nation's  way ; 

When  vice  prevails,  shall  fire  ingenuous  youth 

With  love  of  country,  virtue,  honor,  truth, 

To  foil  ambition,  rife  corruption  brand, 

Grapple  oppression  with  an  iron  hand, 

Nor  count  the  foe,  should  full  invasion  threat, 

One  against  ten,  their  dauntless  legions  set 

Athwart  the  spoiler,  by  heroic  deed 

Shall  save  their  country  in  her  hour  of  need : 

"  Hampton !"  the  battle  cry  that  urges  on 

To  fight  on  every  plain  a  Marathon ! 

That  jewel  name  .on  Carolina's  page 

The  South  can  boast  none  brighter,  nor  the  age. 

And  close  to  Hampton's,  lit  with  lurid  flame, 
See,  scrolled  in  blood,  the  ruthless  Sherman's  name ; 
Immortal  too,  by  odious  title  won : 
Rival  and  peer  of  Attila  the  Hun. 
Eape,  murder,  rapine,  wasting  fire  and  sword, 
Marked  the  red  path  of  Sherman  and  his  horde ; 
And  desolation  "  howls  "  where'er  he  trod. 
Withered  be  Sherman's  blood-stained  wreath  of  fame  I 
Each  leaf  of  laurel  hides  a  thorn  of  shame. 
0,  name  accurst !     Woman  shall  pale  with  fear, 
And  good  men  hiss,  when  "  Sherman  "  strikes  the  ear. 
History  shall  shriek,  as  on  her  penal  page, 
She  hurls  the  hateful  thing  from  age  to  age  ; 


316  THE  SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

And  Sherman  find  unpit ying  as  he, 
Inexorable,  just  posterity. 
For  ye  shall  live,  triad  abhorred  of  man, 
Sherman  and  Attila  and  Gengis  Khan  ! 

Yes,  ruthless  conqueror!  thy  day  is  now  ; 
To-morrow's  Hampton's,  and  the  conquered,  thou. 
Not  always  doth  the  victor  win  renown : 
Honor  and  Fame  withhold  the  envied  crown, 
Yielding  to  turn  alone,  the  dear  applause, 
"Who  wields  the  sword,  obedient  to  their  laws. 
Thus,  scorn  o'erwhelmed  victorious  Bourbon's  name ; 
Thus,  Bayard,  conquered,  lives  a  matchless  fame ; 
And  thus,  rude  Sdbreur  !  spite  thy  sword's  decree, 
In  Glory's  lists,' tis  Hampton's  foot  on  thee  ! 
Chivalry's  pride,  to  country,  honor,  true, 
The  modern  Bayard,  Sherman,  "  pities  "  you. 
Look  up  to  him,  from  your  triumphal  car, 
And  learn  the  hero  !  thou  mere  "  dog  of  war," 
From  leash  "let  slip  "  when'eer,  elate  with  might, 
Power  would  enforce  its  triumph  over  right ! 


Ite  i>H  tfrifc. 


BY  MRS.  MARY  E.  TUCKER,  GEORGIA. 

"Sell  that  crib  ?    Indeed,  indeed,  I  cannot,  for  I  see  in  it  the  faces 
of  my  children.     I  will  starve  before  I  sell  that  crib  !  " 

[CONFEDEBANE   LADY,  1864. 


thou  art  a  senseless  thing, 
Still  recollections  round  thee  cling 
Of  joys  long  past  ; 


THE   OLD   CRIB.  317 

And  I  would  fain  retain  thee  now, 

Yet  Want's  stern  hand  and  lowering  brow 

Has  o'er  me  cast 
His  misery,  with  weight  untold, 
And,  much  prized  crib,  thou  must  be  sold 

Ah  !  well  do  I  remember  yet, 
Remember?  can  I  well  forget 

That  happy  day, 

When  a  swift  tide  my  spirit  moved, 
And  with  a  mother's  soul  I  loved 

The  child  that  lay 
Within  thy  lap — my  precious  boy  ! 
How  throbbed  my  heart  with  untold  joj 

How  swiftly,  then,  the  years  sweep  on, 
With  love,  joy,  wealth,  they  come,  are 

And  very  soon 
A  little  dark-eyed  bonny  girl 
Pressed  on  thy  pillow  many  a  curl ; 

Most  precious  boon 
That  ever  was  to  mortal  given — 
A  cherub  from  the  gates  of  heaven. 

And  yet  again  some  powerful  spell, 
Called  to  the  earth  sweet  baby  Bell, 

My  sunbeam  child, 
With  hair  of  gold  and  eyes  of  blue, 
And  cheeks  that  vie  the  rosebud's  hue — 

Pure,  undefiled ! 

About  my  heart  she  seems  to  twine, 
As  round  the  oak  the  clinging  vine. 


318  THE   SOUTHERN   AMAKANTH. 

Take  back  thy  gold  !     It  shall  not  go  I 
"  'Twas  mine  in  weal,  and  now  in  woe 

It  comforts  me. 

It  takes  me  back  in  fitful  gleams, 
To  the  sweet  fairyland  of  dreams, 

And  then  I  see 

Those  little  heads,  with  glossy  curls, 
My  manly  boy,  my  little  girls ! 


A     BALLAD. 

BY  PAUL  H.    HAYNE. 
I 

FOR  sixty  days — and  upwards, 

A  storm  of  shell  and  shot 
Rained  round  us  in  a  flaming  shower, 

But  still  we  faltered  not ! 
"  If  the  noble  city  perish," 

Our  grand  young  leader  said, 
11  Let  the  only  walls  the  foe  shall  scale, 

Be  the  rampart  of  the  dead  I" 

II. 

For  sixty  days  and  upwards, 
The  eye  of  heaven  waxed  dim ; 


YICKSBURG.  319 

And  even  throughout  God's  holy  morn, 

O'er  Christian's  prayer  and  hymn, 
Arose  a  hissing  tumult, 

As  if  the  fiends  in  air 
Strove  to  ingulf  the  voice  of  faith 

In  the  shrieks  of  their  despair, 

III. 

There  was  wailing  in  the  houses, 

There  was  trembling  on  the  marts, 
While  the  tempest  raged  and  thundered, 

'Mid  the  silent  thrill  of  hearts  ; 
But  the  Lord,  our  shield,  was  with  us, 

And  ere  a  month  had  sped, 
Our  very  women  walked  the  streets 

With  scarce  one  thought  of  dread. 

IY. 

And  the  little  children  gambolled — 

Their  faces  purely  raised, 
Just  for  a  wondering  moment 

As  the  huge  bomb  whirled  and  blazed ! 
Then  turned  with  silvery  laughter 

To  the.sports  which  children  love, 
Thrice  mailed  in  the  sweet  instinctive  thought 

That  the  good  God  watched  above. 

Y. 

Yet  the  hailing  bolts  fell  faster, 

From  scores  of  flame-clad  ships, 
And  about  us,  denser,  darker, 

Grew  the  conflict's  wild  eclipse, 


320  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

Till  a  solid  cloud  closed  o'er  us, 
Like  a  type  of  doom  and  ire, 

Whence  shot  a  thousand  quivering  tongues 
Of  forked  and  vengeful  fire. 

YI. 

But  the  .unseen  hands  of  angels     . 

Those  death  shafts  turned  aside, 
And  the  dove  of  heavenly  mercy 

Euled  o'er  the  battle  tide  ; 
In  the  houses  ceased  the  wailing — 

And  through  the  war-scarred  marts 
The  people  strode  with  step  of  hope, 

To  the  music  in  their  hearts. 
COLUMBIA,  S.  C.,   Aug.  6th,  1862. 


BY  HENKY  TIMHOD. 


CALM  as  that  second  summer  which  precedes 
The  first  fall  of  the  snow, 

In  the  broad  sunlight  of  heroic  deeds 
The  city  bides  the  foe. 

As  yet  behind  the  ramparts  stern  and  proud 
Her  bolted  thunders  sleep — 

Dark  Sumter,  like  a  battlemented  cloud, 
Looms  o'er  the  solemn  deep. 

No  Calpe  frowns  from  lofty  cliff  or  scar 
To  guard  the  holy  strand, 


CHARLESTON.  321 

But  Moultrie  holds  in  leash  her  dogs  of  war 
Above  the  level  sand. 


And  down  the  dunes  a  thousand  guns  lie  couched 

Unseen,  beside  the  flood — 
Like  tigers  in  some  orient  jungle  crouched, 

That  wait  and  watch  for  blood. 

Meanwhile  through  streets  still  echoing  with  trade, 
Walk  grave  and  thoughtful  men, 

Whose  hands  may  one  day  wield  the  patriot's  blade 
As  lightly  as  the  pen. 

And  maidens  whose  bright  glances  would  grow  dim 

At  sight  of  bleeding  wound, 
Seem  each  one  to  have  caught  strength  of  him 

Whose  sword  she  proudly  bound. 

Thus  girt  without  and  garrisoned  at  home, 

Day  patient  following  day, 
Old  Charleston  looks  from  roof  and  spire  and  dome, 

Across  the  tranquil  bay. 

Ships,  through  a  hundred  foes,  from  Saxon  lands 

And  spicy  Indian  ports, 
Bring  Saxon  steel  and  iron  to  her  hands 

And  summer  to  her  courts. 

But  still  along  yon  dim  Atlantic  line 

The  only  hostile  smoke 
Creeps  like  a  harmless  mist  above  the  brine, 

From  some  frail  oak. 


322  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Shall  the  spring  dawn,  and  she  still  clad  in  smiles 

And  with  unscathed  brow, 
Eest  on  the  strong  arms  of  her  palm- crowned  isles, 

As  fair  and  free  as  now  ? 

We  know  not ;  in  the  temple  of  the  Fates 

God  has  inscribed  his  doom  ; 
And  all  untroubled  in  her  faith,  she  waits 

Her  triumph  or  her  tomb. 


BY   PAUL    H.    HAYNE. 

I 


I. 

CALMLY  beside  her  Tropic  strand 

An  Empress,  brave  and  loyal, 
I  see  the  watchful  city  stand 

With  aspect  sternly  royal  ;  — 
She  knows  her  mortal  Foe  draws  near, 

Strong-armed  by  s  ubtlest  science, 
Yet  deep,  majestical,  and  clear, 

Kings  out  her  grand  defiance  :  — 
Oh  !  glorious  is  thy  noble  face, 

Lit  up  by  proud  emotion, 
And  unsurpassed  thy  stately  grace, 

My  warrior  Queen  of  Ocean  ! 

II. 

First  from  thy  lips  the  summons  came, 
Which  roused  our  South  to  action, 

*  Never  used  by  any  collector  of  war  poems. 


CHARLESTON.  323 

And  with  the  quenchless  force  of  flame 

Consumed  the  demon — Faction  ; 
First,  like  a  rush  of  mighty  wind, 

That  rends  great  waves  asunder, 
'Thy  prescient  warning  struck  the  blind, 

And  woke  the  deaf  with  thunder ; 
They  saw  as  with  a  Prophet's  gaze 

The  awful  doom  before  them, 
And  heard  with  horror  and  amaze, 

The  tempest  surging  o'er  them, 

TIL 

Wilt  THOU,  whose  virgin  Banner  rose, 

A  morning  star  of  splendor, 
Quail  when  the  war-tornado  blows, 

And  yield  in  base  surrender  ? 
Wilt  THOU,  upon  whose  loving  heart 

Our  noblest  chiefs  are  sleeping, 
Give  up  the  Patriot's  place  of  rest 

To  worse  than  Yandal  keeping  ? 
Ho !  while  a  life-pulse  throbs  for  fame, 

Thy  sons  will  gather  'round  thee, 
Welcome,  the  shot,  the  steel,  the  flame, 

If  Honor's  hand  hath  crowned  thee  1 

IV. 

Then,  fold  about  thy  beauteous  form. 

The  imperial  robe  thou  wearest, 
And  front  with  royal  port  the  storm 

Thy  Foe  would  dream  thou  fearest; 
If  strength,  and  will,  and  courage  fail 

To  cope  with  brutal  numbers, 


324  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

And  tliou  must  bow  tliee,  mute  and  pale,. 

Where  the  last  hero  slumbers — 
Lift  the  red  torch,  and  light  the  fire 

Amid  those  corpses  gory, 
And  on  thy  self-made  funeral  pyre 

Pass  from  the  world  to  glory ! 


BY   C WASHINGTON. 

SONS  of  the  South  !  from  hill  and  dale, 
From  mountain-top  and  lowly  vale, 
,,  ^Arouse  ye  now !  'tis  Freedom's  wail — 

To  arms  !  to  arms !  she  cries. 

Strike  !  for  Freedom  in  the  dust ; 
Strike  !  to  crush  proud  Mammon's  lust ; 
Strike!  remembering  God  is  just! 

Thus  a  freeman  dies. 

Southrons !  who  with  Beauregard, 
Day  and  night,  keep  watch  and  ward — 
Southrons !  whom  the  angels  guard, 

Strike  for  Liberty  I 

Smite  the  motley  hireling  throng ; 
Smite  !  as  Heaven  smites  the  wrong ; 
Smite  !  they  fly  before  the  strong 

In  God  and  Liberty ! 

*  Written  about  the  time  of  the  first  battle  of  Manassas. 


HYMN   TO   THE   DAWN.  325 

33y  your  hearthstones,  by  your  dead, 
33y  all  the  fields  where  patriots  bled, 
A  freeman's  home  or  gory  bed 

Let  the  alternate  be. 

"Weeping  wives  and  mothers  here, 
Sisters,  daughters,  dear  ones  near — 
iSeas  of  blood  for  every  tear, 

God  and  Liberty ! 

Louder  swells  the  battle-cry, 
Tlaming  sword  and  flashing  eye 
Light  the  field  where  freemen  die ! 

Death  or  Liberty ! 

Backward  roll  your  poisonous  waves, 
.Infidel  and  ruffian  slaves  ! 

"Tis  Heaven's  own  wrath  your  blindness^laves, 

God  and  Liberty ! 


BY  A.    J.    BEQUIER. 

(Published  shortly  after  the  last  of  the  series  of  Confederate  successes,  which 
•commenced  at  Olustee  and  ended  with  Mansfield  and  Pleasant  Hill,  and  from 
which  the  public  mind  then  drew  the  most  hopeful  auguries,  respecting  an 
Dearly  termination  of  the  war  and  the  future  of  the  South.) 

FROM  an  ominous  rift  in  the  pitiless  sky 
That  has  darkened  our  desolate  land, 

^Springs  a  luminous  rill  of  auriferous  dye 
Gushing  out  of  a  mystical  hand ; 

Upon  valleys  of  carnage  and  mountains  of  fire — 
On  the  heaps  of  the  holily  slain — 


326  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

It  descends  with,  the  rush  of  a  resonant  Iyr©y 
And  the  gleam  of  a  magical  rain. 

It  unveils  from  the  depths  of  its  fountains  of  blue,, 

Such  a  blaze  of  bewildering  light 
As  the  Legends  of  Araby  never  yet  drew 

From  the  stars  of  traditional  light : — 
Purple  acres  of  grape  and  savannahs  of  snow, 

Full  of  streams  that  enrichingly  run 
Through  the  fairest  of  blooms  which  the  tropics  be 
stow 

On  the  flowering  isles  of  the  Sun. 

Noble  structures  of  Commerce  and  niches  of  Art, 

Stately  temples  and  towers  between, 
Fretted  domes  soaring  up  from  the  dust  of  the  mart, 

Where  the  wonders  of  Science  are  seen ; 
Fluted  pillars  and  urns  to  the  primitive  Past, 

And  its  young  representative  scions, 
And  bronzes  heroic,  colossally  vast 

As  the  winged  Assyrian  Lions. 

Oh,  I  see  the  long  stretch  of  thy  sorrowing  years, 

Clime  of  cedars !  transformed  in  my  sight 
From  the  comfortless  drops  of  thine  anguishing  tears; 

Into  dews  of  maternal  delight : 
Royal  anthems  resounding  on  uttermost  seas — 

Sceptred  barges  that  bridally  toss, 
With  their  white-waving  pennons  unfurled  to  the 
breeze 

In  the  blush  of  a  tremulous  Cross ! 

Green  turf  of  my  childhood !  engirded  by  strife 
With  a  glory  the  grandest  of  old, 


OUR   CITY   BY   THE   SEA,  327 

Could  they  dream  of  the  toils  which  encompass  thy 
Would  cry  out  from  their  cryptical  mould ;      [life, 

God-anointed  in  War  and  exalted  in  Peace, 
I  behold  thee — abroad  and  at  home — 

With  the  beautiful  lips  of  republican  Greece, 
And  the  brow  of  imperial  Borne. 


iifg  i|  tfe  Ha* 

fV'  ^V' 


EY  W.   (JlLMOEE   SIMMS,    SOUTH   CAEOUNA. 


OUR  city  by  the  sea, 

As  the  "  rebel  city  "  known, 
With  a  soul  and  spirit  free 

As  the  waves  that  make  her  zone, 
Stands  in  wait  for  the  fate 
From  the  angry  arm  of  hate ; 
But  she  nothing  fears  the  terror  of  his  blow  ; 
She  hath  garrisoned  her  walls, 
And  for  every  son  that  falls 
She  will  spread  a  thousand  palls 
For  the  foe ! 

II 

Old  Moultrie  at  her  gate 

Clad  in  arms  and  ancient  fame, 

Grimly  watching  stands  elate 
To  deliver  bolt  and  flame  ! 

Brave  the  band  at  command, 


328  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

To  illumine  sea  and  land 
With  a  glory  that  shall  honor  days  of  yore ; 
And,  as  racers  for  their  goals, 
A  thousand  fiery  souls 
While  the  drum  of  battle  rolls, 
Line  the  shore ! 

III. 

Lo  !  rising  at  his  side, 

As  if  emulous  to  share 
His  old  historic  pride 

The  vast  form  of  Sumter  there ! 
Girt  by  waves  which  he  braves 
Though  the  equinoctial  raves, 
As  the  mountain  braves  the  lightning  on  his  steep  ; 
And  like  tigers  crouching  round, 
Are  the  tribute  forts  that  bound 
All  the  consecrated  ground 
By  the  deep ! 

IY. 

It  was  calm,  the  April  noon, 
When,  in  iron-castled  towers, 

Our  haughty  foe  came  on, 
With  his  aggregated  powers ; 

All  his  might  against  the  right, 

Now  embattled  for  the  fight, 
With  Hell's  hate  and  venom  working  in  his  heart ; 

A  vast  and  dread  array 

Glooming  black  upon  the  day, 

Hell's  passions  all  in  play, 
With  Hell's  art! 


OUB   CITY    BY  THE   SEA.  329 

Y. 

But  they  trouble  not  the  souls, 

Of  our  Carolina  host,* 
And  the  drum  of  battle  rolls, 

While  each  hero  seeks  his  post ; 
Firm,  though  few,  sworn  to  do, 
Their  old  city  full  in  view, 
The  brave  city  of  their  sires  and  their  dead ; 
There  each  freeman  had  his  brood, 
All  the  dear  ones  of  his  blood, 
And  he  knew  they  watching  stood, 
In  their  dread ! 

VI. 

To  the  bare  embattled  height, 

Then  our  gallant  colonel  sprung, 
"  Bid  them  welcome  to  the  fight," 
"Were  the  accents  of  his  tongue  ; 
"  Music,  band !    Pour  out  gr  and — 
The  free  song  of  Dixie  Land  ! 
Let  it  tell  them  we  are  joyful  that  they  come  I 
Bid  them  welcome,  drum  and  flute, 
Nor  be  your  cannon  mute, 
Give  them  chivalrous  salute — 
To  their  doom  !"  f 

*  The  Battle  of  Charleston  Harbor,  April  7,  1863,  was  fought  by 
South  Carolina  troops  exclusively. 

f  As  the  iron-dads  approached  Fort  Sumter  in  line  of  battle,  Col. 
Alfred  Khett,  commandant  of  the  post,  mounting  the  parapet,  where 
lie  remained,  ordered  the  band  to  strike  up  the  national  air  of  Dixie, 
at  the  same  time  in  addition  to  the  Confederate  flag,  the  State  and 
Uegimental  flags  were  flung  out  at  different  salients  of  the  fort,  and 
saluted  with  thirteen  guns. 


330  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

VIL 

Out  spoke  an  eager  gun, 

From  the  walls  of  Moultrie  then ; 
And  through  clouds  of  sulphurous  dun, 

Eose  a  shout  of  thousand  men, 
As  the  shot  hissing  hot, 
Goes  in  lightning  to  the  spot — 

Goes  crashing  wild  through  timber  and  through  mail ; 
Then  roared  the  storm  from  all 
Moultrie's  ports  and  Sumter's  wall — 
Bursting  bomb  and  driving  ball — 
Hell  in  hail. 

VIII. 

Full  a  hundred  cannon  roared 
The  dread  welcome  to  the  foe, 

And  his  felon  spirit  cowered 

As  he  crouched  beneath  the  blow  I 

As  each  side  opened  wide 

To  the  iron  and  the  tide, 
He  lost  his  faith  in  armor  and  in  art ; 

And  with  the  loss  of  faith 

Came  the  dread  of  wounds  and  scath, — 

And  the  felon  fear  of  death 
Wrung  his  heart ! 

IX. 

Quenched  then  his  foul  desires  ; 

In  mortal  pain  and  fear, 
How  feeble  grew  his  fires, 

How  stayed  his  fell  career  I 
How  each  keel,  made  to  reel 


OUK   CITY   BY   THE   SEA.  331 

'Neath  our  thunder,  seems  to  kneel 
Their  turrets  staggering  wildly  to  and  fro,  blind  and  lame,, 
Iron  sides  and  iron  roof, 
Held  no  longer  bullet  proof, 
Steal  away,  shrink  aloof, 
In  their  shame  ! 

X. 

But  our  lightnings  follow  fast, 

With  a  vengeance  sharp  and  hot ; 
Our  bolts  are  on  the  blast, 

And  they  rive  with  shell  and  shot  I 
Huge  the  form  which  they  warm 
With  the  hot  breath  of  the  storm ; 

Dread  the  crash  which  follows  as  each  Titan  mass  is 
struck ; 

They  shiver  as  they  fly, 
While  their  leader  drifting  nigh. 
Sinks,  choking  with  the  cry — 
"Keokuk!" 

XL 

To  the  brave  old  city,  joy  I 

For  that  the  hostile  race, 
Commissioned  to  destroy, 

Hath  fled  in  sore  disgrace  ! 
That  our  sons,  at  their  guns 
Have  beat  back  the  modern  Huns — 
Have  maintained  their  household  fanes  and  their  fires  - 
And  free  from  taint  and  scath, 
Have  kept  the  fame  and  faith, 
(And  will  keep  through  blood  and  death) 
Of  their  sires ! 


332  THE   SOUTHEEN  AMARANTH. 

XII. 

To  the  Lord  of  Hosts  the  glory 

For  His  the  arm  and  might 
That  have  writ  for  us  the  story 

And  have  borne  us  through  the  fight  I 
His  our  shield  in  that  field — 
Yoice  that  bade  us  never  yield  ; 

Oh !  had  he  not  been  with  us  through  the  terrors  of 
that  day? 

His  strength  has  made  us  strong, 
Cheered  the  right  and  crushed  the  wrong, 
To  His  temple  let  us  throng — 
Praise  and  pray. 


BY  W.    GILMOKE   SIMMS. 

The  enemy  from  his  camp  on  Moms  Island,  has,  in  frequent  letters 
in  Northern  papers,  avowed  the  object  at  which  he  aimed  his 
shells  in  Charleston,  to  be  the  spire  of  St.  Michael's  Church.  His 
practice  shows  that  these  avowals  are  true. 

AYE,  strike  with  sacrilegious  aim 

The  temple  of  the  living  God ; 
Hurl  iron  bolts  of  seething  flame 

Through  aisles  which  holiest  feet  have  trod  ; 
Tear  up  the  altar,  spoil  the  tomb, 

And,  raging  with  demoniac  ire, 
Send  down  in  sudden  crash  of  doom, 

That  grand,  old,  sky-sustaining  spire. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  CHURCH         333 

That  spire  for  full  a  hundred  years  * 

Hath  been  a  people's  point  of  sight ; 
That  shrine  hath  warmed  their  souls  to  tears, 

With  strains  well  worthy  Salem's  height ; 
The  sweet,  clear  music  of  its  bells, 

Made  liquid  soft  in  summer  air, 
Still  through  the  heart  of  memory  swells, 

And  wakes  the  hopeful  soul  to  prayer. 

Along  the  shores  for  many  a  mile, 

Long  ere  they  owned  a  beacon  mark, 
It  caught  and  kept  the  day  god's  smile, 

The  guide  for  every  wandering  bark  ;f 
Averting  from  our  homes  the  scath 

Of  fiery  bolt,  in  storm-cloud  driven — 
The  Pharos  to  the  wandering  faith, 

It  pointed  every  prayer  to  Heaven  ! 

Well  may  ye,  felons  of  the  time, 

Still  loathing  all  that's  pure  and  free, 
Add  this  to  many  a  thousand  crime 

'Gainst  peace  and  sweet  humanity : 
Ye  who  have  wrapped  our  town  in  flame, 

Defiled  our  shrines,  befouled  our  homes, 
But  fitly  turn  your  murderous  aim 

Against  Jehovah's  ancient  domes. 

Yet,  though  the  grand  old  temple  falls, 
And  downward  sinks  the  lofty  spire, 

Our  faith  is  stronger  that  our  walls, 
And  soars  above  the  storm  and  fire. 

*  St.  Michael's  Church  was  opened  for  divine  worship,  February 
1st,  1761. 

f"  The  height  of  this  steeple  makes  the  principal  landmark  for 
the  pilots."  -DiLoao,  (in  1319.) 


THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

Ye  sliake  no  faith  in  souls  made  free 
To  tread  the  paths  their  fathers  trod  ; 

To  fight  and  die  for  liberty, 
Believing  in  the  avenging  God ! 

Think  not,  though  long  his  anger  stays, 

His  justice  sleeps — His  wrath  is  spent ; 
The  arm  of  vengeance  but  delays, 

To  make  more  dread  the  punishment. 
Each  impious  hand  that  lights  the  torch 

Shall  wither  ere  the  bolt  shall  fall ; 
And  the  bright  Angel  of  the  Church 

With  seraph  shield  avert  the  ball ! 

For  still  we  deem,  as  taught  of  old, 

That  where  the  faith  the  altar  builds, 
God  sends  an  angel  from  his  fold 

Whose  sleepless  watch  the  temple  shields, 
And  to  his  flock  with  sweet  accord, 

Yields  their  fond  choice,  from  THKONES  and 

POWERS  ; 
Thus  Michael,  with  his  fiery  sword 

And  golden  shield,  still  champions  ours ! 

And  he  who  smote  the  dragon  down, 

And  chained  him  thousand  years  of  time, 
Need  never  fear  the  boa's  frown, 

Though  loathsome  in  his  spite  and  slime. 
He  from  the  topmost  height  surveys 

And  guards  the  shrines  our  fathers  gave ; 
And  we,  who  sleep  beneath  his  gaze, 

May  well  believe  his  power  to  save  1 


CAROLINA.  335 

Yet  if  it  be  that  for  our  sin 

Our  angel's  term  of  watch  is  o'er, 
With  proper  prayer  true  faith  must  win 

The  guardian  watcher  back  once  more  ! 
Faith,  brethren  of  the  Church,  and  prayer — 

In  blood  and  sackcloth  if  it  need  ; 
And  still  our  spire  shall  rise  in  air, 

Our  temple,  though  our  people  bleed  I 


BY  AXNA   PETRE   DETNTES,    LOUISIANA. 

IN  the  hour  of  thy  glory, 

When  thy  name  was  far  renowned, 
When  Sumter's  glowing  storv 

Thy  bright  escutcheon  crowned  ; 
Oh,  noble  Carolina !  how  proud  a  claim  was  mine, 
That  through  homage,  and   through   duty,  and   birth 
right  I  was  thine. 

Exulting,  as  I  heard  thee 
Of  every  lip  the  theme, 
Prophetic  visions  stirred  me, 
In  a  hope-illumined  dream 

A  dream  of  dauntless  valor,  of  battles  fought  and  won, 
Where  each  field  was  but  a  triumph— a  hero  every  son. 

And  now  when  clouds  arise, 

And  shadows  round  thee  fall, 
I  lift  to  heaven  my  eyes, 

Those  visions  to  recall ; 


336  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

For  I  cannot  dream  that  darkness  will  rest  upon  thee 

long, 
OH,  lordly  Carolina!  with  thine   arms   and  hearts  so 

strong. 

Thy  serried  ranks  of  pine, 

Thy  live-oaks  spreading  wide, 
Beneath  the  sunbeams  shine 
In  robes  of  fadeless  pride  ; 
Thus  marshalled  on  their  native  soil,  thy  gallant  sons 

stand  forth, 
As  changeless  as  thy  forests  green,  defiant  of  the  North. 

The  deeds  of  other  days 
Enacted  by  their  sires, 
Themes  long  of  love  and  praise, 

Have  wakened  high  desires 

In  every  heart  that  beats  within  thy  proud  domain, 
To  cherish  their  remembrance,  and  love  those   scenes 
again. 

Each  heart  the  home  of  daring, 
Each  hand  the  foe  of  wrong, 
They'll  meet  with  haughty  bearing, 

The  war-ship's  thunder  song ; 

And  though  the  base  invader  pollute  thy  sacred  shore, 
They'll  greet  him  in  their  prowess  as  their  fathers  did 
of  yore. 

His  feet  may  press  their  soil, 
f  Or  his  numbers  bear  them  down, 

In  his  vandal  raid  for  spoil, 
His  sordid  soul  to  crown  ; 


SAVANNAH   FALLEN.  337 

But  his  triumph  will  be  fleeting,  for  the  hour  is  draw 
ing  near, 

"When  the  war-cry  of  thy  cavaliers  shall  strike  his 
startled  ear. 

A  fearful  time  shall  come, 

"When  thy  gathering  bands  unite, 
And  the  larum-sounding  drum 

Calls  to  struggle  for  the  Right ; 
"Pro  aris  etprofocis"  from  rank  to  rank  shall  fly, 
As  they  meet  the  cruel  foeman  to  conquer  or  to  die! 

Oh,  then  a  tale  of  glory 

Shall  yet  again  be  thine, 
And  the  record  of  thy  story 
The  laurel  shall  entwine ; 

Oh,  noble  Carolina !  oh,  proud  and  lordly  State  ! 
Heroic  deeds  shall  crown  thee,  and  the  Nations  own  thee 
great ! 


BY  ALETHEA  S.  BURROUGHS,  GEORGIA. 

BOWING  her  head  to  the  dust  of  the  earth, 

Smitten  and  stricken  is  she, 
Light  after  light  gone  out  from  her  hearth, 

Son  after  son  from  her  knee. 
Bowing  her  head  to  the  dust  at  her  feet, 

Weeping  her  beautiful  slain, 
Silence !  keep  silence,  for  aye  in  the  street, 

See  1  they  are  coming  again. 


338  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

Coming  again,  oh  !  glorious  ones. 

Wrapped  in  the  flag  of  the  free ; 
Queen  of  the  South  !  bright  crowns  for  thy  sons, 

•Only  a  cypress  for  theef 
Laurel,  and  banner,  and  music,  and  drum, 

Marches  and  requiems  sweet ; 
Silence  !  keep  silence !  alas,  how  they  come, 

See !  how  they  move  through  the  street  I 

Slowly,  ah !  mournfully,  sadly  they  go, 

Bearing  the  young  and  the  brave, 
Fair  as  the  summer,  but  white  as  the  snow — 

Bearing  them  down  to  the  grave. 
Some  in  the  morning,  and  some  in  the  noon, 

Some  in  the  hey-day  of  life ; 
Bower  nor  blossom,  nor  summer,  nor  June, 

Waking  them  back  to  the  strife. 

Some  in  the  billow,  afar,  oh !  afar, 

Staining  the  waves  with  their  blood ; 
One  on  the  vessel's  high  deck,  like  a  star, 

Sinking  in  glory's  bright  flood.* 
Bowing  her  head  to  the  dust  of  the  earth, 

Humbled  but  honored  is  she, 
Lighting  the  skies  with  the  stars  from  her  hearth, 

Who  shall  her  comforter  be  ? 

Bring  her,  oh,  bring  her  the  garments  of  woe  1 

Sackcloth  and  ashes  for  aye  ; 
Winds  of  the  South !  oh,  a  requiem  blow, 

*  Captain  Thomas  Pelot,  C.  S.  N.,  killed  at  the  capture  of  the 
Water  Witch. 


SHERMASIZED.  339 

Sighing  and  sorrow  to-day. 
'Sprinkle  the  showers  from  Heaven's  blue  eyes 

Wide  o'er  the  green  summer  lea, 
JRachel  is  weeping,  oh  !  Lord  of  the  skies, 

Thou  shalt  her  comforter  be ! 


BY   L.    VIRGINIA.   FBENCH,  TENNESSEE. 

[This  Poem  was  read  by  Miss  Lucy  Powell  Harris,  at  a  concert 
given  by  the  pupils  of  the  Houston  Street  Female  High  School,  in 
Atlanta,  May  1st,  1866.] 

IN  this  city  of  Atlanta,  on  a  dire  and  dreadful  day, 

'Mid  the  raging  of  the  conflict,  'mid  the  thunder  of  the 
fray — 

In   the  blaze  of  burning   roof-trees — under   clouds   of 
smoke  and  flame — 

Sprang   a  new   WORD   into   being,  from   a   stern   and 
dreaded  name ; 

Gaunt,  and  grim,  and  like  a  spectre,  rose  that  WORD  be 
fore  the  world, 

From  a  land  of  bloom  and  beauty,  into  ruin  rudely 
hurled — 

From  a  people   scourged  by   exile — from   a   city  os 
tracised — 

Pallas-like  it  sprang  to  being,  and  that  WORD  is — Sher 
manized  ! 

And  forevermore  hereafter,  where  the  fierce  Destroyer 
reigns, 


340  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

"Where  Destruction    pours  her    lava    over    cultivated 

plains — 
Where   Want   and  Woe   hold  carnival — where  bitter 

Blight  and  Blood 
Sweep   over  prosperous  nations  in  a  strong,  relentless 

flood ; 
Where  the  golden  crown  of  Harvest  trodden  into  ashes 

lies, 
And    Desolation    stares    abroad  with  famine-frenzied 

eyes— 
Where  the  wrong  with  iron  sceptre  crushes  every  Eight 

we  prized, 
There  shall  people  groan  in  anguish — "  God!  the  Right 

is  Shermanized  1 


MAN  may  rule  the  raids  of  Euin — lead  the  legions  that 
despoil — 

From  the  lips  of  honest  Labor  dash  the  guerdon  of  its 
toil— 

"Sow  with  salt"  the  smiling  valleys,  and  on  every 
breezy  height 

Kindle  bale-fires  of  destruction,  lurid  in  the  solemn 
night; 

He  may  sacrifice  the  aged,  and  exult  when  Woman 
stands, 

'Mid  the  sunken,  sodden  ashes  of  her  home,  with  pal 
sied  hands 

Drooping  over  hungered  children — man  may  thus  im 
mortalize 

His  name  with  haggard  infamy — his  watchword — "  Sher- 


SHERMAMZED.  341 

Nobler  deeds  are  WOMAN'S  province — she  must  not 
destroy,  but  build, 

She  must  bring  the  urns  of  Plenty  with  the  wine  of 
Pleasure  filled ; 

She  must  be  the  "  sweet  restorer  "  of  this  sunny  South 
ern  land  ; 

Fill  our  schools,  rebuild  our  churches,  take  the  feeble 
by  the  hand, 

Aid  the  Press,  befriend  the  teacher,  give  to  Want  its 
daily  bread, 

And  never,  never  fail  to  weave  above  our  "  noble  dead  " 

The  laurel  garland  due  to  deeds  of  valor's  high  emprize, 

And  won  by  men  whom  failure  could  not  sink,  or — 
Shermanize ! 

With  her  wakened  love  of  labor,  let  her  labor  on  in 
love, 

Still,  in  softness  and  in  stillness,  as  the  starry  circles 
move, 

Bearing  light  and   bringing  gladness,  from  the  leaden 

clouds  unfurled, 

'As  the  soft  rise  of  the  sunlight  bringeth  morning  to  the 
world ; 

Grandly  urging  on  Endeavor,  as  the  gates  of  Day  un 
close, 

Till  the  "  solitary  place  again  shall  blossom  as  the  rose," 

And  Woman — THE  RE-BUILDEE — shall  be  freely  eulo 
gised 

By  the  triumph  of  her  people,  then  no  longer  Sher- 
manized. 

dod  bless  our  noble  Georgia !  though  her  soil  was  over 
run, 


342  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

And  her  lands  in  desolation  laid,  beneath  an  Autumn* 
sun ; 

"With  the  signal  shout  "  To  action  /" — like  the  boom  of 
signal  guns, 

She  has  roused  the  iron  mettle  of  her  strong  and  stal 
wart  sons. 

May  her  daughters  aid  that  effort  to  rebuild  and  to  re 
store, 

Working  on  for  Southern  freedom  as  they  never  worked, 
before ! 

May  Georgia  as  a  laggard  never  once  be  stigmatized, 

And  her  PEOPLE,  PRESS,  or  PULPIT,  never  more  be? 
Shermanized ! 


BY  MRS.    MARGARET  J.    PRESTON. 

HALT  ! — the  march  is  over  1 

Day  is  almost  done ; 
Loose  the  cumbrous  knapsack. 

Drop  the  heavy  gun  : 
Chilled  and  wet  and  weary, 

Wander  to  and  fro, 
Seeking  wood  to  kindle 

Fires  amid  the  snow. 

Eound  the  bright  blaze  gather, 

Heed  not  sleet  nor  cold, — 
Ye  are  Spartan  soldiers, 


WATCHING. 

Stout  and  brave  and  bold : 
Never  Xerxian  army 

Yet  subdued  a  foe, 
Who  but  asked  a  blanket 

On  a  bed  of  snow. 

Shivering  midst  the  darkness 

Christian  men  are  found, 
There  devoutly  kneeling 

On  the  frozen  ground, — 
Pleading  for  their  country 

In  its  hour  of  woe, — 
For  its  soldiers  marching 

Shoeless  through  the  snow. 

Lost  in  heavy  slumbers, 

Free  from  toil  and  strife  ; 
Dreaming  of  their  dear  ones, — 

Home  and  child  and  wife ; 
Faultless  they  are  lying 

While  the  fires  burn  low, 
Lying  in  their  blankets, 

Midst  December's  snow. 
FBOM  BEECHENBBOOK. 


6) 


843 


THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


BY   ANNIE   C.    KETCHUM. 

[Surely  nothing  was  ever  written  more  exquisitely  pure  than  this. 
The  Spirit  of  Poetry  with  which  it  is  imbued  seems  to  come  from 
some  rarer  Eden  atmosphere  which  is  always  calm  and  clear,  and 
yet  lovely  with  a  golden  glow,  like  the  pure  October  skies  which  now 
bend  over  us.  ] 

FAIRER  far 

Than  the  divinest  dream  of  him  who  drew 
The  stately  Eos,  guiding  up  the  blue 

Her  gemmed  and  golden  car, 

From  out  the  tent  of  Night 
Cometh  the  radiant  Morning — brushing  back 
The  clouds,  like  blossoms,  from  her  rosy  track, 

With  diamond  dews  bedight. 


o 


The  priestly  mocking-bird 
Waketh  the  grosbeak  with  his  early  hymn, 
And  down  the  slopes  and  through  the  forests  dim, 

Sweet,  holy  sounds  are  heard. 

Proud,  regal  purple  bells 

Swinging  from  the  fox-glove's  plume,  and  daisies  white, 
And  silvery  fairy's  fringe,  are  gleaming  bright 

O'er  all  the  grassy  swells. 

Pomegranates,  golden  brown, 
Drop  delicate  nectar  through  each  rifted  rind, 
And  ghostly  witches' -feather,*  on  the  wind 

Comes  slowly  drifting  down. 

*  The  delicate  down  of  a  peculiar  kind  of  prairie  grass  common 
along  the  Northern  shores  of  the  Mexican  Gulf. 


WATCHING.  345 

The  gay  cicada  sings 

Drowsily  'mid  the  acacia's  feathery  leaves, 
While  round  her  web,  the  caterpillar  weaves 

The  last,  white,  silken  rings. 

October  silently 

His  pleasant  work  fulfils  with  busy  hands, 
"While,  cheering  him,  floats  o'er  the  shining  sands 

The  murmur  of  the  Sea. 


Dreaming  the  long  night  hours 
Of  white  sails  corning  o'er  the  tossing  deep, 
She  hath  arisen  from  her  strange,  glad  sleep, 

To  look  for  rare,  bright  flowers, 

Cups  honied  to  the  brim, 
And  fruits,  and  brilliant  grasses,  and  the  stems 
Of  myrtles,  with  their  waxen  diadems, 

To  offer  unto  him. 

"  Steady,  thou  freshening  breeze  " — 
Her  dark  eyes  say,  as  o'er  the  sparkling  main 
She  gazeth  :  "  Steady,  till  thou  bring  again 

The  ship  from  distant  seas  ; 

u  So,  ere  his  golden  wine 
The  setting  sun  adown  the  valley  pour, 
Dear  eyes  may  watch  with  me  beside  the  door, 

The  Autumn  day  decline." 

0,  birds  !  0,  breezes  free ! 
Ye  may  not  bring  her  from  that  rocky  coast 


346  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

The  proud  ship  stranded — nor  the  tempest-tost 
From  underneath  the  Sea ! 

But,  when  she  wearily 
Shall  pray  for  comfort,  of  that  country  tell 
Where  all  the  lost  are  crowned  with  asphodel, 

And  "there  is  no  more  Sea  I" 
LADIES  HOME,  GEOEGIA. 


BY    HON.    W.    D.    POUTER,    CHARLESTON,    S.    CAROLINA. 

"  We  have  outposts  or  videttes  outside  of  the  line  of  pickets.  The 
instructions  are,  to  stand  on  duty  two  hours  at  a  time,  perfectly  still 
— without  moving  hand  or  foot,  and  in  these  cold,  bitter  nights  we 
get  almost  frozen. " — Extract  of  a  letter  from  a  boy  in  the  Army  of  Vir 
ginia,  to  his  mother,  dated  "  Road  near  Derby 'own." 

THE  winter  night  is  dark  and  chill, 
The  winter  rains  the  trenches  fill ; 
Oh !  art  thou  on  the  outposts  still, 
My  soldier  boy  ? 

Thy  mother's  heart  is  sick  with  fear, 
The  moaning  winds  sound  sad  and  drear, 
The  foeman  lurks  in  ambush  near, 
My  soldier  boy. 

One  treach'rous  shot  may  lay  thee  low  ! 
My  stricken  heart  with  such  a  blow, 
No  rest  nor  peace  again  would  know, 
My  soldier  boy. 


LEE  TO   THE   BEAJR.  347 

Thy  tender  years  and  soft  brown  eyes 
Ill-suited  seem  to  such  emprise, 
But  in  thy  soul  the  manhood  lies, 
My  soldier  boy. 

I  think  by  day  and  dream  at  night, — 
I  start  at  tidings  of  the  fight, 
And  learn  thee  safe —  with  such  delight, 
My  soldier  boy. 

Cheerful  and  bright,  thou  dost  essay 
To  chase  my  every  tear  away, 
And  turn  the  night  into  the  day, 
My  soldier  boy. 

In  thee  I  gave  what  most  I  love ; 
For  thy  return,  thou  weary  dove, 
I  lift  my  fervent  prayers  above, 
My  soldier  boy. 

Temper  the  wind  to  my  dear  child, 
Oh !  God — and  curb  the  winter  wild, 
And  keep  in  thy  embraces  mild, 
My  soldier  boy. 


BY  JOHN  K.    THOMPSON. 


DAWN  of  a  pleasant  morning  in  May, 

Broke  through  the  wilderness  cool  and  grey, 

While  perched  in  the  tallest  tree-tops,  the  birds 

Were  carolling  Mendelssohn's  "  Songs  without  words." 


348  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

Far  from  the  haunts  of  men  remote, 
The  brook  brawled  on  with  a  liquid  note,    • 
Ana  Nature,  all  tranquil  and  lovely,  wore 
The  smile  of  the  spring,  as  in  Eden  of  yore. 

Little  by  little  as  daylight  increased, 

And  deepened  the  roseate  flush  in  the  East — 

Little  by  little  did  morning  reveal 

Two  long  glittering  lines  of  steel ; 

Where  two  hundred  thousand  bayonets  gleam, 
Tipped  with  the  light  of  the  earliest  beam, 
And  the  faces  are  sullen  and  grim  to  see, 
In  the  hostile  armies  of  Grant  and  Lee. 

All  of  a  sudden,  ere  rose  the  sun, 
Pealed  on  the  silence  the  opening  gun — 
A  little  white  puff  of  smoke  there  came, 
And  anon  the  valley  was  wreathed  in  flame. 

Down  on  the  left  of  the  rebel  lines, 

Where  a  breastwork  stands  in  a  copse  of  pines, 

Before  the  rebels  their  ranks  can  form, 

The  Yankees  have  carried  the  place  by  storm. 

Stars  and  Stripes  on  the  salient  wave, 
Where  many  a  hero  has  found  a  grave, 
And  the  gallant  Confederates  strive  in  vain 
The  ground  they  have  drenched  with   their  blood  to 
regain ! 

Yet  louder  the  thunder  of  battle  roared — 
Yet  a  deadlier  fire  en  the  columns  poured — 
Slaughter  infernal  rode  with  despair, 
furies  twain,  through  the  murky  air. 


LEE   TO  THE  REAR.  349 

Not  far  off  in  the  saddle  there  sat, 

A  grey-bearded  man  in  a  black  slouched  hat ; 

Not  much  moved  by  the  fire  was  he, 

Calm  and  resolute  Robert  Lee. 

Quick  and  watchful  he  kept  his  eye 
On  the  bold  rebel  brigades  close  by, — 
Reserves,  that  were  standing  (and  dying)  at  ease, 
While  the  tempest  of  wrath  toppled  over  the  trees. 

For  still  with  their  loud,  deep,  bull-dog  bay, 
The  Yankee  batteries  blazed  away, 
And  with  every  murderous  second  that  sped 
A  dozen  brave  fellows,  alas  !  fell  dead. 

The  grand  old  grey -beard  rode  to  the  space 
Where  death  and  his  victims  stood  face  to  face, 
And  silently  waved  his  old  slouched  hat — 
A  world  of  meaning  there  was  in  that ! 

"  Follow  me  !     Steady  !     We'll  save  the  day  1"  * 
This,  was  what  he  seemed  to  say ; 
And  to  the  light  of  his  glorious  eye 
The  bold  brigades  thus  made  reply — 

11  We'll  go  forward,  but  you  must  go  back  " — 
And  they  moved  not  an  inch  in  the  perilous  track : 
"  Go  to  the  rear,  and  we'll  send  them  to  h — !" 
And  the  sound  of  the  battle  was  lost  in  their  yell 

Turning  his  bridle,  Robert  Lee 

Rode  to  the  rear.     Like  the  waves  of  the  sea, 

*  An  incident  in  the  Battle  of  the  Wilderness. 


350  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Bursting  the  dikes  in  their  overflow, 
Madly  his  veterans  dashed  on  the  foe. 

And  backward  in  terror  that  foe  was  driven, 
Their  banners  rent  and  their  columns  riven, 
Wherever  the  tide  of  battle  rolled 
Over  the  Wilderness,  wood  and  wold. 

Sunset  out  of  a  crimson  sky, 
Streamed  o'er  a  field  of  ruddier  dye, 
And  the  brook  ran  on  with  a  purple  stain, 
From  the  blood  of  ten  thousand  foemen  slain. 

Seasons  have  passed  since  that  day  and  year — 
Again  o'er  its  pebbles  the  brook  runs  clear, 
And  the  field  in  a  richer  green  is  drest 
Where  the  dead  of  a  terrible  conflict  rest 

Hushed  is  the  roll  of  the  rebel  drum, 

The  sabres  are  sheathed,  and  the  cannon  are  dumb, 

And  Fate,  with  his  pitiless  hand  has  furled 

The  flag  that  once  challenged  the  gaze  of  the  world ; 

But  the  fame  of  the  Wilderness  fight  abides ; 

And  down  into  history  grandly  rides, 

Calm  and  unmoved  as  in  battle  he  sat, 

The  Grey -bearded  man  in  the  black  slouched  hat 


GENERAL   ROBERT   E.    LEE.  351 


BY  MARY  BAYAED  CLARKE.  (TENELLA. )  NORTH  CAROLINA. 

As  went  the  kniglit  with  a  sword  and  shield 
To  tournay  or  to  battle  field, 
Pledged  to  the  lady  fair  and  true, 
For  whom  his  knightly  sword  he  drew ; 
You  offered  at  your  country's  call 

"  Your  life,  your  fortune  and  your  all ;" 
Pledging  your  sacred  honor  high, 
For  her  to  live,  for  her  to  die  ; 
With  her  you  cast  your  future  lot, 
And  now,  without  one  single  spot 
To  dim  the  brightness  of  your  fame, 
Or  cast  a  shadow  o'er  your  name, 
You  lay  your  sword  with  honor  down, 
And  wear  defeat  as  'twere  a  crown  ; 
Nor  sit  like  Marius  brooding  o'er 
A  ruin  which  can  rise  no  more  ; 
But  from  your  Pavia  bear  away 
A  glory  brightening  every  day. 
Above  the  wreck  which  round  you  lies 
Calm  and  serene  I  see  }^ou  rise, 
A  grand  embodiment  of  PRIDE 
Chastened  by  sorrow,  and  allied 
To  disappointment  but  to  show 
How  bright  your  virtues  'neath  it  glow. 
But  who  may  tell  how  deep  the  dart 
Is  rankling  in  your  noble  heart, 
Or  dare  to  pull  the  robe  aside 
Which  Caesar  draws,  his  wounds  to  hide. 
OLD  GUARD,  N.  Y. 


352  THE  SOUTHEKN  AMARANTH: 


AN   INCIDENT   OF   THE   WAR. 

WALKEK   MEKEWETHER    BELL. 

[On  one  occasion  during  the  war  in  Virginia,  General  Lee  was  ly 
ing  asleep  by  the  wayside,  when  an  army  of  15,000  men  passed  by 
with  hushed  voices  and  footsteps,  lest  they  should  disturb  his  slum 
bers.] 

O'ERCOME  with  weariness  and  care, 

The  war-worn  veteran  lay 
On  the  green  turf  of  his  native  land, 

And  slumbered  by  the  way. 
The  breeze  that  sighed  across  his  brow, 

And  smoothed  its  deepest  lines ; 
Fresh  from  his  own  loved  mountains  bore 

The  murmur  of  the  pines, — 
And  the  glad  sound  of  waters, 

The  blue  rejoicing  streams, 
Whose  sweet  familliar  tones  were  blent 

With  the  music  of  his  dreams. 

They  brought  no  sound  of  battle  din, 

Shrill  fife  or  clarion 
But  only  tenderest  memories 

Of  his  own  fair  Arlington  : 
With  perhaps  a  grander  vision 

Which  alas !  was  not  to  be, 
Of  a  new-born  banner  floating 

O'er  a  land  redeemed  and  free. 
While  thus  the  chieftain  slumbered, 

Forgetful  of  his  care, 


HUSH.  353 

The  hollow  tramp  of  thousands 

Came  sounding  through  the  air; 
With  ringing  spur  and  sabre 

And  trampling  feet  they  come, 
Gay  plume  and  rustling  banner 

And  fife,  and  trump  and  drum  : 
But  soon  the  foremost  column 

Sees  where,  beneath  the  shade, 
In  slumber  calm  as  childhood 

Their  weary  chief  is  laid. 

And  down  the  line  a  murmur 

From  lip  to  lip  there  ran — 
Until  the  stilly  whisper 

Had  spread  to  rear  and  van ; — 
And  o'er  the  host  a  silence 

As  deep  and  sudden  fell, 
As  though  some  mighty  wizard 

Had  hushed  them  with  a  spell ; 
And  every  sound  was  muffled, 

And  every  soldier's  tread, 
Fell  lightly  as  a  mother's, 

Eound  her  baby's  cradle  bed ; — 
And  rank  and  file  and  column, 

So  softly  on  they  swept — 
It  seemed  a  ghostly  army 

Had  passed  him  as  he  slept ; 
But  mightier  than  enchantment, 

Was  that  whose  magic  wove 
The  spell  that  hushed  their  voices — 

Deepest  reverence  and  love. 

METROPOLITAN  EECOED. 


354  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


(M.  c.  L.) 

BY  MRS.    MARGARET   J.    PRESTON. 

SHE  boasts  no  Amazonian  charms, 
Minerva's  hemlet  never  bound  her  ; 

And  though  she  finds  delight  in  arms  — 
'Tis  when  her  father's  are  around  her. 

She  does  not  aim  to  make  a  mark, 

Like  Philippa  (as  Froissart  wrought  her  :) 

She  is  no  modern  Joan  D'Arc, 
Like  Garibaldi's  wife  or  daughter. 

And  while  there  meets  in  her  young  veins 
Ancestral  blood  —  the  patriot's  —  sage's  — 

Whose  fame  rung  out  in  trumpet  strains 
Goes  gathering  glory  down  the  ages  — 

She  is  not  proud,  nor  cold,  nor  grand  ; 

No  haughtiness  her  tone  evinces  ; 
Her  heart  is  open  as  her  hand  — 

Her  hand  is  liberal  as  a  prince's. 

She  does  not  awe  you  with  her  eye, 

And  yet  its  glance  goes  straightway  through 
you.  — 

A  latent  fire  to  warm  you  by  — 
A  steady  stellar  light  to  woo  you. 

Her  smile  is  like  the  golden  day's 
Irradiating  every  feature  ; 


A   HEKO'S   DAUGHTER.  355 

You  catch  its  influence  as  you  gaze, 
And  own  "  she  is  a  gracious  creature.' 


So  genial  her  responsive  mind, 

With  every  varying  mood  agreeing, — • 

You  wonder  how  she  comes  to  find 
The  very  key-note  of  your  being. 

Beneath  her  sparkling  surface  flow, 

The  breezy  freshness  and  the  laughter, — - 

Wells  deep  and  strong  an  undertone 
Of  rare  and  racy  wisdom,  after. 

Sweet,  fire-side  glances  all  are  hers ; 

The  chatalaine  beside  the  bodice 
Is  but  one  token  that  avers 

She  is  a  very  household  goddess ! 

Accepting  with  unmurmuring  lips, 

War's  stern  decree, — its  griefs,  its  losses ; 

And  nobler  through  that  blood-eclipse, 
And  stronger  for  its  burdening  crosses ; — 

She  folds  no  hands  in  languid  pause, — 
Child  of  her  father,  true  to  duty, 

She  weeps  at  heart,  the  dear  "lost  cause," 
Yet  fills  the  busy  hours  with  beauty. 

Her  heroism  holds  in  view 

Our  people's  strife  for  life, — the  lesser 
Yet  bitterer  one !     There's  work  to  do, 

And  well  she  does  it ; — so —  God  bless  her  ! 
THE  LAND  WE  LOVE,  Charleston,  S.  G.. 


856  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


BY   E.    KEY  BLUNT. 

IN  the  name  of  God !     Amen ! 

Stand  for  our  Southern  rights ; 
On  our  side,  Southern  men, 

The  God  of  Battles  fights  ! 
Fling  the  invaders  far — 

Hurl  back  their  word  of  woe — 
The  voice  is  the  voice  of  a  brother, 

But  the  hands  are  the  hands  of  a  foa 
They  come  with  a  trampling  army, 

Invading  our  native  sod — 
Stand  Southrons !  fight  and  conquer, 

In  the  name  of  the  mighty  God  ! 

They  are  singing  our  song  of  triumph,* 

"Which  proclaimed  us  proud  and  free — 
While  breaking  away  the  heart-strings 

Of  our  nation's  harmony. 
Sadly  it  floateth  from  us, 

Sighing  o'er  land  and  wave ; 
Till,  mute  on  the  lips  of  the  poet, 

It  sleeps  in  his  Southron  grave. 
Spirit  and  song  departed  ! 

Minstrel,  and  minstrelsy ! 
We  mourn  ye,  heavy  hearted, — • 

But  we  will — we  will  be  free ! 

*  The  Star  Spangled  Banner,  written  by  Francis  S.  Key,  of  Balti 
more,  all  of  whose  descendants  are  Confederates. 


THE   SOUTHERN  CKOSS.  357 

They  are  waving  our  flag  above  us, 

With  the  despot's  tyrants  will ; 
With  our  blood  they  have  stained  its  colors, 

And  they  call  it  holy  still. 
With  tearful  eyes  but  steady  hand, 

We'll  tear  its  stripes  apart, 
And  fling  them  like  broken  fetters, 

That  may  not  bind  the  heart 
But  we'll  save  our  stars  of  glory, 

In  the  might  of  the  sacred  sign 
Of  him  who  has  fixed  forever 

Our  "  Southern  Cross  "  to  shine. 

.Stand,  Southrons  !  fight  and  conquer  I 

Solemn,  and  strong  and  sure ! 
The  fight  shall  not  be  longer 

Than  God  shall  bid  end  are. 
By  the  life  that  but  yesterday 

Waked  with  the  infant's  breath ; 
By  the  feet  which  ere  morning  may 

Tread  to  the  soldier's  death  ! — 
By  the  blood  which  cries  to  heaven— 

Crimson  upon  our  sod — 
•Stand,  Southrons !  fight  and  conquer 

In  the  name  of  the  mighty  God  1 


358  THE    SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


In  reply  to  sundry  attacks  lately  made  upon  them  "by  some  members  of 
the  Northern  Press. 

BY  MES.    C.  A.    "BAT/l-.,  SOUTH  CAEOUNA. 

L 

WHEN  war's  grim  visage  o'er  us  frowned, 
And  desolation  reigned  around — 
When  souls  of  joy  and  hope  were  shorn, 
And  life-strings  rudely  rent  and  torn — 
When  e'en  our  bravest  were  unmanned, 
And  waves  of  woe  rolled  o'er  our  land — 
Our  Southern  women  fearless  stood, 
And  firmly  met  the  raging  flood. 

IL 

When  fiercely  rang  the  battle  cry, 
Calling  our  hosts  to  bleed  and  die — 
When  from  each  home  some  cherished  form. 
Went  out  to  meet  the  gathering  storm— 
When  death  was  showering  forth  his  darts. 
And  trampling  over  loving  hearts — 
Our  noble  women  checked  each  tear, 
And  uttered  nought  but  words  of  cheer. 

III. 

When  after  each  terrific  fray, 
Wounded  and  faint  our  brave  boys  layy 
Afar  from  friends,  afar  from  home, 


OUR   SOUTHERN  WOMEN.  359 

Where  best  beloved  ones  might  not  come— 
The  gentle  women  of  our  land, 
With  pitying  eye  and  tender  hand, 
Watched  tireless  by  each  sufferer's  bed, 
And  wept  above  the  unknown  dead- 

IV. 

When  for  our  cause  each  hope  was  lost, 
And  every  soul  was  tempest  tost — 
When  homes  in  ashes  round  us  lay, 
And  o'er  us  shone  no  cheering  ray — 
When  enemies,  with  taunt  and  jeer, 
Sought  to  bow  Southern  hearts  in  fear — 
Of  all  but  pride  and  honor  shorn, 
Our  women  paid  back  scorn  for  scorn. 

Y. 

Then  let  the  press,  by  Forney  led, 
Pour  out  its  wrath  on  woman's  head ; 
Let  those  who  dared  not  face  our  men, 
And  wield  no  weapon  save  the  pen, 
Show  to  the  world  how  brave  they  grow, 
When  woman  only  is  their  foe. 
By  enemies  as  vile  as  they, 
Though  venom  in  each  word  may  lay, 
Our  Southern  sisters,  true  and  tried, 
Care  not  how  much  they  are  belied, 
While  loved  and  honor' d,  still  they  stand 
The  pride  of  their  own  sunny  land. 

HOME,  Atlanta,  Ga. 


360  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 


BY  MABT  E.    BBTAN. 

THE  paeans  of  a  conquering  foe 

Ring  wild  across  the  Western  River ; 
And  all  a  nation's  hopes  are  low, 

And  they  are  slaves  forever. 
Slaves  !  While  ten  thousand  stalwart  forms — 

The  freeborn  and  the  brave, 
The  blood  of  youth  and  vigor  warms, 

Shall  such  a  word  as  slave 
Be  breathed,  to  dye  the  cheek  with  flame 

Of  fiery  anger,  not  of  shame  ? 

Oh  !  rather  than  at  last  to  lie 

Beneath  a  low-born  despot's  heel, 
Ten  thousand  hands  will  fling  on  high 

Their  dark,  blood-rusted  steel ; 
Ten  thousand  voices  send  a  cry 

Up  to  the  pealing  heaven, 
In  wild,  despairing  strife  to  die, 

Though  not  a  soul  were  shriven, 
Than,  after  all  their  glorious  past, 

To  lose,  to  yield,  to  cringe  at  last. 

Not  so  !  along  the  marshalled  lines, 

In  vain  their  leader's  voices  ring. 
They  stand,  dark,  sullen  as  the  pines, 

That  o'er  them  shadows  fling 
They  listen  with  cold  looks  or  sneers, 

And  arms  at  careless  rest. 
Thus — after  all  the  toil  of  years — 

The  Army  of  the  West ; 


THE   MISSOURI   CAP  IAIN.  361 

And,  when  their  chieftains'  voices  cease 
The  word  they  mutter  is  for  "peace." 

Alas !  they  pine  for  home  and  rest ; 

Disease,  and  want,  and  toil, 
And  hope  deferred  have  dimmed  the  crest 

That  once  no  shade  could  soil. 
Doubt  not  the  Southron's  courage  true, 

His  honor  high  and  pure, 
His  is  the  power  to  dare  and  do, 

But  never  to  endure. 
They  furl  the  flag  to  float  no  more, 

The  flag  they  once  so  proudly  bore. 

The  indignant  blood  one  moment  burned 

In  the  young  leader's  cheek, 
The  next  with  scornful  smile  he  turned, 

A  lonelier  path  to  seek. 
The  thunders  of  a  coming  storm 

Knelled  in  the  far  off  West ; 
He  heard  them  not,  thoughts  wild  and  warm 

Were  struggling  in  his  breast 
Pale,  slight,  he  was,  and  young  in  years, 

Yet  seemed  his  lip  the  home  of  sneers, 
And,  in  his  eye,  the  look  that  sears 

Told  that  youth's  softness  and  it's  tears 
Had  been  consumed  by  burning  cares. 

"  Peace  !"  and  that  eye  shot  forth  a  fire, 

Like  the  red  flash  that  burst 
That  instant,  from  the  cloudy  pyre. 

lk  Peace  !  be  the  word  accursed. 
Peace !  yes,  such  peace  as,  fainting  feels 


362  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

The  fawn,  round  whom  his  coils 
The  boa  winds  in  rings  of  steel ; 

Alas !  such  peace  as  foils 
The  lowest  hope  of  happiness, 
Is  such  as  comes  our  land  to  bless ! 

Peace  !  while  yet  smoking  is  the  brand 

That  lit  our  blackened  homes  ; 
Yet  reeking  with  our  blood  the  hand 

That  now  with  insult  comes ! 
When  peace  means  ruin,  famine,  chains, 

And  infamy,  and  shame  ; 
All  that  can  stamp  a  damning  stain 

Upon  a  nation's  name  ! 
The  craven  souls  !"  he  hissed  the  word — 
His  soul  by  fiercest  passion  stirred. 

A  sudden  wind  swooped  from  on  high, 

And  strewed  the  locust's  blooms  of  foam 
And  bore  from  the  rude  camp  near  by 

The  chorus,  "  Home,  sweet  home." 
And  softer  grew  those  scornful  lips, 

As  came  that  plaintive  tone, 
And,  from  the  gloomy  brow's  eclipse, 

The  eye  less  fiercely  shone  ; 
Although  he  knew  that  song  bespoke 
His  men  had  thrown  off  duty's  yoke. 

He  heard  the  shout,  the  loud  adieu, 
The  laugh's  gay,  mocking  tone, 

With  sad,  scarce  bitter  smile,  he  knew 
He  soon  would  be  alone ; 

And  he  had  joyed  in  other  days, 


THE   MISSOURI   CAPTAIN.  363 

When  battle  boomed  anear, 
Upon  that  stalwart  band  to  gaze, 

And  hear  their  cheerings  clear, 
And  mark  the  bright  steel  gleam  on  high, 
And  see  his  gallant  colors  fly. 

"  Tis  well,"  he  muttered,  "  let  them  go, 

Home,  love,  for  them  remain, 
And  these  may  bid  some  flowers  glow 

Around  even  Slavery's  chain, 
But  me !  what  is  there  left  for  me 

Beneath  the  heaven's  wide  cope  ? 
"Where  shall  my  place  of  refuge  be 

Who  have  no  home,  no  hope  ? 
Home  1  how  that  word  sends  through  my  brain 
The  fiery  thrills  of  hate  again ! 
Yes,  hate  and  vengeance — these  remain. 

"  My  home  !     Oh !  night  of  wo  and  shame, 

When  after  blood  and  toil, 
An  outlawed  man,  by  stealth  I  came 

Back  to  my  native  soil ; 
One  hour  that  sacred  soil  to  press, 

Disgraced  by  vandal  feet ; 
One  hour  to  feel  my  child's  caress, 

My  wife's  fond  kiss  to  meet, 
I  went ;  beneath  Night's  clouded  dome, 
I  saw  the  ashes  of  my  home  ; 

"  And  for  my  only  welcome  sound, 

I  heard  my  dog's  low  moan — 
Too  weak  to  Iteave  the  spot  of  ground 

Where  he  was  crouched  alone. 


364  THE   SOUTHERN  AMAKANTH. 

I  saw  the  spot — a  grave-shaped  mound, — 
And  knew  my  babe  lay  under  ground. 

•X--X-****** 

"  My  only  child !  and  where,  oh  !  where 

Was  she  who  gave  it  life  ? 
I  shrieked  aloud  in  my  despair 

For  her,  my  murdered  wife. 
A  cold  hand  fell  upon  my  own, 

I  heard  my  whispered  name, 
A  pale  face  in  the  moon-light  shone, 

And  wild  thoughts  went  and  came, 
Until  that  low  voice,  warning,  said, 

'  Be  still,  alas  !  she  is  not  dead.' 

"  Oh  God  !  the  dark  tale  that  she  told — 

That  old  and  withered  dame — 
And  yet  my  heart  stood  still  and  cold 

To  hear  those  words  of  shame. 
My  home  by  hirelings  burnt,  my  child 

Stifled  amid  its  flame, 
My  wife  by  demon  arts  beguiled, 

Blackening  my  honored  name ; 
The  pure  sweet  lips  that  I  had  kissed, 
Press'd  by  the  fip.nd  whose  curse  had  hissed 
But  late  around  my  dying  child 
And  blazing  home — by  him  beguiled ! 
I  was  so  calm,  I  think  I  smiled. 

"  And  yet  that  hour  in  my  heart, 

Dried  every  dew  of  hope, 
Saw  every  olden  light  depart  ' 

That  lit  my  horoscope. 


THE   MISSOURI   0  \PTAIN.  365 

Henceforth,  one  aim  should  fill  my  soul, 

One  purpose  nerve  my  hand, 
My  life  should  have  one  only  goal. 

And  at  my  Fate's  command, 
I  knelt  above  the  turf  where  lay, 

My  murdered  child — but  not  to  pray. 

"  The  curse  I  breathed,  the  oath  I  swore, 

Burn  yet  upon  my  brain, 
No  after  hope  existence  bore, 

No  feelings  yet  remain 
Save  stern  revenge,  and  love  for  thee, 

My  own,  my  bleeding  land. 
My  only  dream — to  see  thee  free 

And  bright  and  glorious  stand 
Among  the  nations  of  the  earth, 
The  first  in  glory  and  in  worth. 

"  And  now,  to  see  thy  sons  despair 

So  soon  of  thy  release, 
To  hear  throughout  thy  realm  one  prayer 

For  ignominious  peace ! 
To  see  them  throw  their  arms  aside 

And  leave  thee  to  thy  fate — 
More  dear  that  in  thy  hour  of  pride, 

Now  thou  art  desolate. 
Just  God  !  the  chains  that  thou  must  wear, 
The  heavy  insults  thou  must  bear  I 

"  Oh  I  by  thy  wrongs  and  by  my  own, 

The  bones  of  my  dead  child, 
My  home  in  blackened  ashes  strown, 

By  all  that  drove  me  wild, 


366  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

I  swear  this  well-worn  sword  I  hold 

Shall  ever  sheathless  be 
Until  this  burning  blood  is  cold, 

Or  else,  my  country  free. 
Revenge,  revenge  is  all  I  crave, 
And  then  a  soldier's  lowly  grave." 

The  storm  that  gathered  o'er  his  head, 

In  pealing  thunders  broke ; 
The  oak,  whose  branches  near  him  spread, 

Was  shivered  as  he  spoke. 
He  heeded  not  the  omen  dire, 

Strong  feeling  shook  his  soul ; 
He  knelt  amid  the  tempest's  fire, 

The  thunder's  heavy  roll. 
Brave,  eagle  soul,  without  a  mate  I 
The  young,  the  proud,  the  desolate, 
Scathed  by  the  lightning  bolt  of  fate  1 
NATCHTTOCHES  TIMES,  LA.,  June  3d,  1865. 


BY  A.    E.    "WATSON,    GEOEGIA. 

["Mamma,  what  is  the  report?'  asked  a  four  year  old  prattler* 
I  answer  the  question  for  that  mother.  ] 

A  GREAT  long  line  of  men,  my  boy, 

Who  breast  to  breast  with  the  foe, 
Stand  there  in  the  cold,  the  heat,  the  rain, 
And  bear  such  toils  again  and  again, 

As  I  hope  you  may  never  know. 


THE   FRONT.  367 

'Tis  a  line  of  glittering  guns,  my  boy, 

And  sabres  keen  and  bright, 
And  cannon  grim,  whose  terrible  sound 
Like  an  earthquake  shakes  the  solid  ground, 

Till  it  rocks  in  very  fright 

Every  man  who  stands  in  that  line,  my  boy, 

Every  man  who  holds  a  gun, 
Is  a  savior,  my  boy,  for  you  and  me ; 
They  have  bared  their  bosoms  to  make  us  free ; 

We  were  slaves  unless  it  were  done. 

You  know  where  our  old  home  stood,  my  boy  ? 

Ah  !  I  know  you  remember  it  well ! 
But  the  dear  old  house  stands  not  there  now, 
It  is  gone  :  and  the  papers  have  told  us  how 

It  was  burned  by  a  Yankee  shell. 

They  fired  at  our  army  there,  my  boy, 

Our  front  ran  along  by  the  farm — 
They  heard  the  whistling  missiles  come 
Which  left  us,  my  boy,  without  a  home ; 

But  it  did  far  greater  harm. 

For  great,  good  men  were  there,  my  boy, 

Where  the  cruel  iron  fell, 
And  two  brave  fellows  bit  the  dust 
And  ten  were  wounded  by  the  burst 

Of  the  shrieking  Yankee  shell. 


o 


You  think  it  a  cruel  thing,  my  boy, 

To  kill  each  other  so, 
But  were  you  a  man,  like  those  who  stand 


368  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

In  a  line  at  the  front,  to  protect  their  land, 
I  would  have  you  stand  there  too. 

For  my  country  is  in  distress,  my  boy  ; 

They  have  said  we  shall  not  be  free, 
They  have  dotted  our  hills  all  over  with  graves 
But  our  homes  are  not  yet  the  homes  of  slaves, 

Pray  God  they  may  never  be  ! 

But  I  fear  they  would, — they  would,  my  boy, 

But  for  the  great,  long,  line 
At  the  front,  whose  cannon  do  bloody  work, 
Who  handle  the  sword  with  a  wicked  jerk, 

W  hile  they  fight  for  you  and  me. 

They  do  not  think  it  wrong,  my  boy, 

That  the  great  baptismal  font 
Which  seals  our  freedom  to  us,  and  saves 
You  and  me,  my  boy,  from  being  slaves, 

Is  filled  with  blood  at  the  front. 

METEOPOLITAN  EECOBD. 


BY  HENRY   TIMROD. 

Written  during  the  meeting  of  the  first  SoutJiern  Congress  at 
Montgomery,  Alabama,  February,  1861. 

I. 

HATH  not  the  morning  dawned  with  added  light  ? 

And  shall  not  evening  call  another  star 
Out  of  the  infinite  regions  of  the  night, 

To  mark  this  day  in  Heaven  ?     At  last,  we  are 


ETHNOGENESIS.  369 

A  nation  among  nations :  and  the  world 
Shall  soon  behold  in  many  a  distant  port 

Another  flag  unfurled ! 

Now,  come  what  may,  whose  favor  need  we  court  ? 
And,  under  God,  whose  thunder  need  we  fear  ? 

Thank  Him  who  placed  us  here 
Beneath  so  kind  a  sky — the  very  sun 
Takes  part  with  us ;  and  on  our  errands  run 
All  breezes  to  the  ocean  ;  dew  and  rain 
Do  noiseless  battles  for  us ;  and  the  Year, 
And  all  the  gentle  daughters  in  the  train, 
March  in  our  ranks,  and  in  our  service  wield 

Long  spears  of  golden  grain  ! 
A  yellow  blossom  as  her  fairy  shield, 
June  flings  her  azure  banner  to  the  wind, 

While  in  the  order  of  their  birth 
Her  sisters  pass ;  and  many  an  ample  field 
Grows  white  beneath  their  steps,  till  now,  behold, 

Its  endless  sheets  unfold 

THE  SNOW  OF  SOUTHERN  SUMMERS  !    Let  the  earth 
Kejoice !  beneath  those  fleeces  soft  and  warm 
Our  happy  land  shall  sleep 
In  a  repose  as  deep 
As  if  we  lay  intrenched  behind 
Whole  leagues  of  Eussian  ice  and  Arctic  storm  ! 

IL 

And  what  if,  mad  with  wrongs  themselves    have 

wrought, 

In  their  own  treachery  caught, 
By  their  own  fears  made  bold, 
And  leagued  with  him  of  old, 


370  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

Who  long  since  in  the  limits  of  the  North, 
Set  up  his  evil  throne,  and  warred  with  God — 
What  if,  both  mad  and  blinded  in  their  rage, 
Our  foes  should  fling  us  down  their  mortal  gage, 
And  with  a  hostile  step  profane  our  sod  ! 
We  shall  not  shrink,  my  brothers,  but  go  forth 
To  meet  them,  marshalled  by  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 
And  overshadowed  by  the  mighty  ghosts 
Of  Moultrie  and  of  Eutaw — who  shall  foil 
Auxiliars  such  as  these  ?     Nor  these  alone, 

But  every  stock  and  stone 

Shall  help  us  ;  but  the  very  soil 
And  all  the  generous  wealth  it  gives  to  toil, 
And  all  for  which  we  love  our  noble  land, 
Shall  fight  beside,  and  through  us,  sea  and  strand, 

The  heart  of  woman  and  her  hand, 
Tree,  fruit,  and  flower,  and  every  influence, 

Gentle,  or  grave,  or  grand ; 

The  winds  in  our  defence 
Shall  seem  to  blow  ;  to  us  the  hills  shall  lend 

Their  firmness  and  their  calm  ; 
And  in  our  stiffened  sinews  we  shall  blend 

The  strength  of  pine  and  palm  ! 

III. 
Nor  would  we  shun  the  battle-ground, 

Though  weak  as  we  are  strong ; 
Call  up  the  clashing  elements  around, 

And  test  the  right  and  wrong  ! 
On  one  side,  creeds  that  dare  to  teach 
What  Christ  and  Paul  retrained  to  preach ; 
Codes  built  upon  a  broken  pledge, 
And  charity  that  whets  a  poniard's  edge ; 


ETHNOGENESIS.  371 

Fair  schemes  tliat  leave  the  neighboring  poor 
To  starve  and  shiver  at  the  schemer's  door, 
While  in  the  world's  most  liberal  ranks  enrolled, 
He  turns  some  vast  philanthropy  to  gold ; 
Eeligion,  taking  every  mortal  form 
But  that  a  pure  and  Christian  faith  makes  warm, 
Where  not  to  vile,  fanatic  passion  urged, 
Or  not  in  vain  philosophies  submerged, 
Hepulsive  with  all  Pharisaic  leaven, 
And  making  laws  to  stay  the  laws  of  Heaven  ! 
And  on  the  o^her,  scorn  of  sordid  gain, 
Unblemished  honor,  truth,  without  a  stain, 
Faith,  justice,  reverence,  charitable  wealth, 
And,  for  the  poor  and  humble,  laws  which  give, 
Not  the  mean  right  to  buy  the  right  to  live. 

But  life  and  home  and  health  ! 
To  doubt  the  end  were  want  of  trust  in  God, 

Who,  if  he  has  decreed 
That  we  must  pass  a  redder  sea 
Than  that  which  rang  to  Miriam's  holy  glee, 

Will  surely  raise  at  need 

A  Moses  with  his  rod  ! 

IY. 

But  let  our  fears — if  fears  we  have — be  still, 
And  turn  us  to  the  future !     Could  we  climb 
Some  mighty  Alp,  and  view  the  coming  time, 
The  rapturous  sight  would  fill 

Our  eyes  with  happy  tears  ! 
Not  only  for  the  glory  which  the  years 
Shall  bring  us  ;  not  for  lands  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  wealth,  and  power,  and  peace,  though  these  shall 
be; 


372  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

But  for  the  distant  peoples  we  shall  bless, 
And  the  hushed  murmurs  of  a  world's  distress 
For,  to  give  labor  to  the  poor, 

The-  whole  sad  planet  o'er, 

And  save  from  want  and  crime  the  humblest  doorr 
Is  one  among  the  many  ends  for  which 

God  makes  us  great  and  rich ! 
The  hour  perchance  is  not  yet  wholly  ripe 
When  all  shall  own  it  but  the  type 
Whereby  we  shall  be  known  in  every  land 
In  that  vast  gulf  which  laves  our  Southern  strand, 
And  through  the  cold,  untempered  ocean  pours 
Its  genial  streams,  that  far-off  Arctic  shores 
May  sometimes  catch  upon  the  softened  breeze 
Strange  tropic  warmth  and  hints  of  summer  seas. 


To  the  Jacobinical  Rulers  of  the  United  States  of  America,  tJiis  poem  is  most 
respectfully  dedicated. 

BY  J.    L.    B.,    VIEGINIA. 

HIGH  priest  of  freedom's  holy  cause, 
Chief,  statesman,  sage  and  hero,  he 

Whom  now  oppression's  galling  chains 
Enslaves  amidst  the  lawless  free  I 

He,  chief  of  millions  overwhelmed, 

And  crushed  beneath  the  heel  of  spite, 

Whose  only  crime  was  freeman's  pride 
And  val'rous  deeds  in  freedom's  fight, 

Now  nobly  bears  his  country's  cross — 
Now,  martyr-like,  for  her  he  bleeds ; 


JEFFERSON  DAVIS.  873 

And  like  the  holy  Nazarene, 

Takes  on  himself  his  country's  deeds  1 

'The  dastard  stroke  of  stolen  power 

Upon  him  falls,  and  thus  through  him, 

As  vicar,  loving  millions  bleed, 

And  weep  throughout  his  native  clime. 

Xike  Bonnivard  in  Chillon's  walls, 

And  Kaleigh  too  of  later  age  ; 
He  takes  his  daily,  stinted  round, 

The  object  of  Oppression's  rage. 

The  crime  for  which  he  wears  the  chains 

Imposed  by  Faction's  usurped  rule, 
Was  stern  adherence  to  the  bond,* 

Ordained  in  Freedom's  ancient  school,  f 

A  crime  for  which  the  mighty  name 

Of  Washington  is  now  revered, 
To  whom,  for  which,  a  nation's  zeal, 

Has  in  memoriam  proudly  reared 

Vast  piles,  and  has  thereon  inscribed 

''-Pater  Patria"  an  honored  crime, 
Bequeathed  by  him  with  blood-sealed  scroll, 

Of  Liberty,  to  endless  time  ! 

Oh,  inconsistent  zealots,  yea. — 

"  Degenerate  sons  of  noble  sires  I" 
What  gave  to  them  immortal  fame 

In  your  base  bosoms  now  expires ! 

*  Declaration  of  Independence, 
f  The  Congress  of  1816. 


374  THE   SOUTHERN  AXARAXTBL 

The  annual  round  brings  forth  the  da  j  * 
Of  Freedom's  birth,  when  more  than  men. 

Inscribed  upon  the  sacred  scroll 

"  All  men  are  free,"  with  inspired  pen ; 

An  I  to  the  world  thereon  declared, 
Of  self-willed  laws  the  sacred  right, 

In  ties  confederate  free  to  join, 
And  full  the  power  to  disunite. 

But  lo  !  as  oft  the  natal  day 
Is  ushered  in,  ye  mouth  the  deed, 

And  laud  with  hypocritie  cant 

Your  sires — to  them  a  worthless  meed ; 

And  then  straightway  with  base  conceit, 
And  purblind  greed  of  vulgar  selfj 

Construe  its  force  with  partial  aim : 
Ignobly  grasping  for  the  pelf 

Of  subsidy — and  through  the  loops 
Of  pretence  false,  and  cunning  plea 

Creeping — thus  from  our  common 
Demanding  fall  immunity. 

Through  years  successive  have  ye  e'er 

The  UD  claration  "  thus  ignored  ;f 

And  facts  concurrent  too  betrayed — 

All  bonds  paternal — once  adored ! 

And  thus  did  ye,  with  tyrant's  greed, 
Provoke  the  patriot's  last  appeal — 

*  Fourth  of  July, 
f  Constitutional  Amendment 


VJE  VICTIS.  375 

Awoke  tlie  soul  of  chivalry, 

To  strike  the  blow  for  Freedom's  weal  I 

To  strike  once  more  for  the  bequest, 

To  all  by  Pater  Patria  made — 
To  strike  as  he  of  yore  had  done 

For  Freedom  with  a  freeman's  blade  I 

And  lo !  within  the  prison  walls, 

Of  dastard  power  at  Washington, 
Is  now  immured  whilst  praises  ring, 

For  what  of  erst  his  sword  has  done  I 
QTTEENSTON,  C.  "W.,   January,,  1867. 


f  »     f fefc. 

1865. 

WHEN  flaming  meteors  fall  in  starry  rain, 
The  darting  splendors  vanish  as  they  fly. 

The  watchers  seek  for  them  on  earth  in  vain  ; 
They  fade,  and  rayless  gloom  enshrouds  the  sky. 

So  gleamed  upon  the  Southern  sky,  and  faded, 
The  starry  splendors  of  heroic  deeds : 

The  shining  valor  of  a  land  invaded, 
Is  quenched  by  conquest,  and  the  gloom  succeeds. 

A  people  vanquished  grope  among  the  graves, 
And  sadly  murmur,  blessed  are  the  dead : 

The  dead  are  martyrs,  but  the  living  slaves, 
Without  the  souls  of  slaves  to  bondage  bred. 

The  old  nobility  of  freedom  came 

With  its  aspiring  thoughts  to  them,  as  heirs ; 


376  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

f  These  thoughts,  now  wrenched  by  power  that  cannot 

tame, 
Pierce  like  a  sword  reverted  him  who  bears. 

Remembered  glory  wreaks  itself  in  anguish — 
The  war,  the  victories,  the  flag,  the  cause ! 

Remembrance  is  a  rack  for  men  who  languish, 
Bereft  of  arms,  of  liberty  and  laws. 

In  vain  for  liberty  a  people  fought, 

And,  year  by  year,  unequal  war  renewed — 

While  richer  blood  than  gold  has  ever  bought, 
"With  crimson  currents  all  the  land  imbrued 

The  ruins  of  free  nations  yield  the  stones 
To  build  triumphant  arches  in  all  time : 

The  landmarks  of  the  ages  are  the  thrones 
Of  conquerors,  the  cruel  kings  of  crime. 

Yes,  vain  was  valor,  victories  were  vain, 

Though  ranks  of  heroes  threefold  hosts  o'erthrew  ; 

What  heroes  died  each  victory  to  gain  I 
What  hosts  returned  the  battle  to  renew  ! 

The  right  is  quelled,  and  triumph  waits  on  power, 

Till  tardy  time  reveals  redress  divine. 
The  earthquake  rends  the  temple,  as  the  tower, 

But  God  and  truth  survive  their  broken  shrine. 

If  e'er  a  fallen  cause  and  conquered  land 
Can  save  for  memory  a  chieftain's  name, 

The  chiefs  who  led  our  chivalry  may  stand 
With  warriors  in  the  foremost  file  of  fame. 

Three  hundred  made  Thermopyla3  renowned : 
A  hundred  thousand  of  our  brave,  unknown, 


VM  VICTIS.  377 

In  graves  unmarked  by  monument  or  mound, 
Lie  nameless  as  the  land  they  called  their  own. 

Their  death  was  Spartan,  arid  their  life  as  brave, 
With  virtues  glowed  that  Sparta  never  cherished. 

They  for  their  country  all  but  honor  gave, 
And  with  her  liberty  their  glory  perished. 

The  fields  they  made  immortal  as  they  fell, 
Pay  tribute  of  renown  to  conquering  foes : 

"When  fell  their  country  with  her  sons,  her  knell 
Was  of  their  fame  sole  echo  and  its  close. 

Now  mute  until  their  States  again  shall  rise, 
Eedeemed  by  coming  men — now,  haply,  born  ; 

Their  fame  will  then  salute  the  brightening  skies, 
As  Memnon's  music  hailed  the  kindling  morn. 

The  thunders  of  the  battles  now  are  hushed  : 
Why  hear  we  not  the  jocund  song  of  peace  ? 

Until  the  souls  of  freemen  shall  be  crushed, 
Tyrannic  hate  its  warfare  will  not  cease. 

An  empire  and  a  garden  was  the  South, 
With  riches  teeming  in  a  golden  clime, 

Where  many  a  starveling  now,  with  quivering  mouth, 
Redeems  her  life  by  vows  she  deems  a  crime. 

The  alms  which  mercy  gives  when  hunger  craves, 
Though  sin  and  shame  pollute  the  beggar's  door, 

There  wring  from  orphans  homage,  as  of  slaves, 
To  those  who  slew  their  sires  and  made  them  poor. 


378  THE   SOUTHERN  AMAEANTH. 

How  fell  the  fury  of  intestine  wars  ! 

"Where  brotherhood  but  barbs  the  keen  reproof 
Of  violated  faith,  till  men  abhor 

The  nurslings  sheltered  by  a  brother's  roo£ 

The  lurid  lava  of  invasion  flowed 

O'er  town  and  country,  garden,  field  and  wood, 
And  made  a  wilderness  where  cinders  glowed, 

To  mark  where  harvests,  homes,  and  cities  stood. 

But  homes  in  ashes,  art  and  time  restore, 
While  seasons,  cherished  by  the  sun,  repair 

On  ravaged  plains  the  bloom  they  lent  before  ; 
And  hearts  heroic  penury  can  bear. 

But  States  in  ruins  law  and  freedom  dead  ! 

Ah,  now  the  men  of  steel  like  maidens  weep. 
All,  all  is  lost  for  which  our  heroes  bled, 

And  mourning  vigils  evermore  we  keep. 

Our  tyrants  ply  the  tortures  of  the  mind 

With  zeal,  but  no  barbarian  art ; 
The  cunning  culture  of  an  age  refined 

Contrives  their  engines  to  subdue  the  heart 

The  fetters  which  they  forge  a  nation  clasp ; 

The  scourge  is  wrought  the  spirit  to  debase ; 
More  deadly  than  the  hemlock  or  the  asp, 

Their  poison  kills  the  manhood  of  a  race. 

And  he,  vicarious  victim,  once  our  chief, 
Now  leads  the  long  procession  of  our  woes. 

In  prison  walls  he  bears  no  single  grief — 
A  people's  chieftain  still  to  friends  and  foes. 


VM  YLCTIS.  379 

The  States  lie  served  with,  honors  crowned  his  brow, 
And  gave  him  primacy  of  power  and  trust ; 

The  States  which  conquered  them,  elect  him  now 
To  wear  a  crown  which  hallows  human  dust. 

The  martyr's  crown  attends  the  martyr's  doom, 
And  vengeance,  baffled  by  her  stroke  extreme, 

But  makes  immortal  when  she  would  entomb 
A  cause  with  him  who  was  its  head  supreme. 

A  glory  from  his  prison  by  the  sea 

Afar  will  shine  across  the  waves  of  time, 

To  guide  the  prows  of  all  who  would  be  free, 

Or  keep  through  night  and  storm  a  faith  sublime. 

A  people  is  immortal  and  can  wait  ; 

Can  calmly  bide  the  hour  which  God  ordains  ; 
The  patient  watch  of  ages,  soon  or  late, 

A  season  finds  to  burst  a  tyrant's  chains. 

SOUTHEEN  SOCIETY,  BALTIMOKE. 


®0  flii  JtUttfo  of  fin  i>M 


BY  M.    C. 

Fiddlite  est  de  Dieu. 


OFF  from  the  ivory  keys  lift  your  fingers, 

Sweet  though  their  glamour  be,  matchless  their  skill 

Hushed  be  the  voice  in  the  chamber  where  lingers 
The  echo  of  words  which  must  ever  be  still. 

Or,  if  the  full  heart  will  in  song  seek  expression, 
Oh,  borrow  your  strains  from  those  desolate  lands 


380  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Where  melody  tells  the  long  tale  of  oppression 
Unchecked,  though  a  Czar  or  a  viceroy  commands. 

Tear  from  your  garments  the  trappings  of  Fashion, 
Would  ye  the  fHe  of  your  conquerors  swell, 

While  over  the  lone,  silent  prisoner's  ration 
The  Chief  of  Confederates,  is  bowed  in  his  cell  ? 

Oh  !  light  foot  of  Beauty  !  no  longer  advancing 

In  mazes  of  graceful  variety,  steal 
Where  Morning's  first  rays  from  the  Christ's  Cross  are 
glancing 

On  worshippers  prostrate  in  reverent  appeal. 

Low  by  the  Altar  where  now  they're  kneeling, 

Kneel  with  them,  weep  with  them,  Heaven  with  them 

sue 

That  his  narrow-souled  lords  learn  the  wisdom  of  deal 
ing 
That  justice  to  him,  which  is  mercy  to  you. 

"  Oh,  the  shame  !  oh,  the  shame  !  will  be  yours  if  for 
getting 

One  hour,  him  who  pines  in  the  dungeon  accursed ; 
And  wherefore  he  pines  and  for  whom? — can  you  let  in 

One  hope  to  your  hearts,  in  which  he  is  not  first  ? 

Before  dear  love  of  wife,  before  dear  love  of  kindred — 
Before  hopes  of  the  later  and  earlier  rains — 

Be  the  thought  of  Monroe's  lonely  captive — till  sun 
dered 
His  shackles  forever,  your  feet  are  in  chains. 

NEW  YORK  FREEMAN'S  JOURNAL. 


JEFFERSON  DAVIS.  383 


WALKEB   MEBIWETHER    BELL. 


Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears, 

Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 

Are  all  with  thee,  are  all  with  thee.5'  LONGFELLOW. 

CALM  martyr  of  a  noble  cause, 

Upon  thy  form  in  vain 
The  Dungeon  shuts  its  cankered  jaws, 

And  clasps  its  cankered  chain  ; 
For  thy  free  spirit  walks  abroad, 

And  every  pulse  is  stirred ; 
With  the  old  deathless  glory  thrill, 

Whene'er  thy  name  is  heard. 

The  same  that  lit  each  Grecian  eye. 

Whene'er  it  rested  on 
The  wild  pass  of  Thermopylae — 

The  plain  of  Marathon  ; 
And  made  the  Roman's  ancient  blood, 

Bound  fiercely  as  he  told, 
"  How  well  Horatio  kept  the  bridge, 

In  the  brave  days  of  old." 

The  same  that  makes  the  Switzer's  heart 

With  silent  rapture  swell, 
When  in  each  Alpine  height  he  sees 

A  monument  to  Tell : 
The  same  that  kindles  Irish  veins 

When  Emmet's  name  is  told ; 
What  Bruce  to  Caledonia  is, 
•     Kosciusko  to  the  Pole — 


382  THE    SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

Art  thou  to  us  ! — thy  deathless  fame, 

With  Washington  entwined, 
Forever,  in  each  Southern  heart 

Is  hallowed  and  enshrined  ; — 
And  though  the  tyrant  give  thy  form 

To  shameful  death — 'twere  vain, 
It  would  but  shed  a  splendor  round 

The  gibbet  and  the  chain. 

Only  less  sacred  in  our  eyes, 

Thus  blest  and  purified, 
Than  the  dear  cross  on  which  our  Lord 

Was  shamed  and  crucified, 
Would  the  vile  gallows  tree  become, 

And  through  all  ages  shine, 
Linked  with  the  glory  of  thy  name, 

A  relic  and  a  shrine ! 
METBOPOLITAN  BECOKD. 


MKS.    MAKGABET  J.    PBESTON. 

HAVE  ye  no  mercy  ?     Punic  rage 

Boasted  small  skill  and  torture  when 
The  sternest  patriot  of  his  age — 

And  Komans  all  were  patriots,  then — 
Was  doomed  with  his  unwinking  eyes 
To  stand  beneath  the  fiery  skies, 
Until  the  sun-shafts  pierced  his  brain, 
And  he  grew  blind  with  poignant  pain, 
While  Carthage  jeered  and  taunted.    Yet, 
When  day's  slow  moving  orb  had  set, 
And  pitying  nature,  kind  to  all, 


TO   THE   FRIENDS   OF   THE    OLD   DAYS.  883 

In  dewy  darkness  bathed  "her  Land, 
And  laid  it  on  eacli  lidless  ball, 

So  crazed  with  gusts  of  scorching  sand — 
They  yielded, — nor  forbade  the  grac^, 

By  flashing  torches  in  his  face. 

Ye  flash  the  torches  ! — Never  night 

Brings  the  blank  dark  to  that  worn  eye ; 
In  pitiless,  perpetual  light, 

Our  tortured  Eegulus  must  lie! 
Yet  tropic  suns  seem  tender :  they 
Eyed  not  with  purpose  to  betray  ; 
No  human  vengeance,  like  a  spear 
Whetted  to  sharpness  clean  and  clear, 
By  settled  hatred,  pricked  its  way, 
Eight  through  the  bloodshot  iris  !     Nay, 
Ye  ;  ave  refined  the  torment !     Glare 

A  little  longer  through  the  bars 
At  the  bayed  lion  in  his  lair — 

And  Grod's  clear  hand  from  out  the  stars. 
To  shame  inhuman  man,  may  cast 
Its  shadow  o'er  those  lids,  at  last, 
And  end  their  aching,  with  the  blest, 
Signet  and  seal  of  perfect  rest ! 

THE  LAND  WE  LOVE. 


BY  FANNY  DOWNING,    NOETH    CAROLINA. 

PROMETHEUS  on  the  cold  rock  bound, 

The  vulture  at  his  heart, 
In  you,  oh  !  Southern  chief,  has  found 

A  fitting  counterpart. 


384:  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH, 

The  Titan  by  his  wondrous  skill 
Fashioned  a  man  from  clay  ; 

You  formed  a  nation  at  your  will, 
And  Lent  it  to  your  sway  ! 

He  made  a  dull,  insensate  thing, 

A  form  without  a  soul ; 
Your  spirit,  with  life-stirring  spring, 

Electrified  the  whole. 

Like  him,  your  greatness  did  you  wrong 
Your  virtue  was  your  bane ; 

Each  soared  above  the  common  throng, 
Each  found  a  prison  chain. 

Your  aims  alike  were  noble  ;  well 

Ye  battled,  till  at  length, 
Each,  having  done  his  utmost,  fell — 

Dragged  down  by  Force  and  Strength 

Ye  fell,  but  gained  a  height  sublime, 
And  more  than  mortal  fame, 

Binding  upon  the  breast  of  Time 
An  ever  glorious  name ! 

No  further  may  the  semblance  go — 
Consumed  by  Zeus' s  frown, 

Prometheus  with  supernal  woe 
In  agony  bowed  down. 

While  you,  oh  I  gentle  sufferer,  feel, 
Though  bending  'neath  the  rod, 

A  holy  joy,  the  sign  and  seal 
Of  a  sustaining  God  I 


PROMETHEUS  VINCTUS.  385 

Within  your  grated  prison  cell 

A  gracious  guest  abides, 
And  by  the  same  low-spoken  spell, 

"Which  stilled  the  raging  tides 

Of  fierce  Tiberias,  He  exerts 

A  spirit-soothing  calm, 
And  heals  the  sting  of  earthly  hurts 

With  heavenly  peace  and  balm. 

Around  you  in  unending  play 

The  bounding  billows  roar, 
And  white  with  crest  of  seething  spray 

Break  thundering  on  the  shore. 

These  ocean  surges  well  express 

The  love,  the  hope,  the  care 
Which  to  you  in  your  loneliness, 

Your  faithful  people  bear. 

Chains  and  a  prison  cannot  wrest 

Your  empire  from  its  throne ; 
You  find  in  every  Southern  breast 

A  kingdom  and  a  home  I 

The  stately  land  you  strove  to  save, 

In  sable  robes  arrayed, 
Majestic  mourns  beside  the  grave 

Where  all  your  hopes  are  laid. 

But  though  she  weeps  her  cherished  dead, 

With  sorrow  deep  and  true, 
No  tears  of  bitterness  are  shed 

Like  those  that  fall  for  you  1 


386  THE   SOUTHERN   AMAEANTH. 

You  hold  her  heart-strings  in  your  hand, 

And  every  blow  and  slur, 
That  strikes  you  helpless  as  you  stand, 

Falls  doubly  hard  on  her ! 

Heaven  help  us  all !     The  New  year  dawns 

Again  with  gladsome  birth  ; 
God  grant  ere  many  smiling  morns 

Have  glorified  the  earth, 

That  one  may  break  amid  the  stars, 

"Which  by  his  blest  decree, 
Beaming  across  your  prison  bars, 

Shall  shine  upon  you,  FREE  ! 
THE  .LATOD  \ra  X.OVE. 


BY  JANE   T.   H.    CROSS. 


THE  cell  is  lonely,  and  the  night 

Has  filled  it  with  a  darker  gloom ; 
The  little  rays  of  friendly  light, 

Which  through  each  crack  and  chink  found  room 
To  press  in  with  their  noiseless  feet, 
All  merciful  and  fleet, 
And  bring  like  Noah's  trembling  dove, 
God's  silent  messages  of  love — 

These,  too,  are  gone, 

Shut  out.  and  gone, 
And  that  great  heart  is  left  alone. 

Alone  with  darkness  and  with  love, 
Around  him  Freedom's  temple  lies, 


PEESIDSNT  DAVIS.  387 

Its  arches  crushed,  its  columns  low, 

The  night  wind  through  its  ruin  sighs  : 

Rash,  cruel  hands,  that  temple  razed. 

Then  stood  the  world  amazed ! 

And  now  those  hands — ah,  ruthless  deeds, 

Their  captive  pierce — his  brave  heart  bleeds. 

And  yet  no  groan 

Is  heard,  no  groan ! 
He  suffers  silently,  alone. 

For  all  his  bright  and  happy  home 

He  has  that  cell  so  drear  and  dark, 
The  narrow  walls  for  heaven's  blue  dome, 

The  clank  of  chains  for  song  of  lark. 
And  for  the  grateful  voice  of  friends — 
That  voice  which  ever  lends 
Its  charm  where  human  hearts  are  found — 
He  hears  the  key's  dull,  grating  sound ; 

No  heart  is  near, 

No  kind  heart  near, 
No  sigh  of  sympathy,  no  tear ! 

Oh,  dream  not  thus,  thou  true  and  good  ! 

Unnumbered  hearts  on  thee  await, 
By  thee  invisibly  have  stood  ; 

Have  crowded  through  thy  prison  gate — 
Nor  dungeon  bolts,  nor  dungeon  bars, 
Nor  floating  "  stripes  and  stars," 
Nor  glittering  gun  or  bayonet, 
Can  ever  cause  us  to  forget 

Our  faith  to  thee, 

Our  love  to  thee, 
Thou  glorious  soul !  thou  strong  !   thou  free ! 

NEW  YOBS  NLWS. 


388  THE    SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


BY   LOUISE. 


DEAR  lady,  would  I  had  the  power 

A  wreath  of  poesy  to  twine, 
All  glowing  with  rich  gems  of  thought 

Worthy  to  lay  upon  thy  shrine  ; 
Giving  thy  virtues  homage  due, 
Oh,  Southern  matron,  brave  and  true  I 

Such  task  will  poet  pens  employ,        v 
For  me,  I  may  but  ask  to  bring 

My  simple  and  untutored  lay  ; 
The  poor,  but  earnest  offering 

Of  sympathy,  that  warmly  glows 

For  thee,  in  all  thy  bitter  woes. 

0  !  noble  wife  of  him  whose  name 
Is  now  a  cherished  household  word, 

By  which  all  true  and  generous  hearts 
At  home,  abroad,  are  deeply  stirred  ; 

For  him,  for  thee,  our  prayers  are  given, 

At  early  morn  and  quiet  even. 

But  most  when  at  the  twilight  hour, 
The  thronging  thoughts  will  sadly  come 

Of  him,  within  his  lonely  cell — 
Of  thee,  within  thy  dreary  home — 

Home  !  ah,  the  word  but  mocks  thee  now, 

And  bids  the  tide  of  grief  o'erflow. 


STAND  FIRM!  389 

Alas  !  in  thy  fair,  stricken  land, 

What  household  group  hath  joy  to-day? 

Its  noble  sons,  and  daughters  pine, 
In  silence  'neath  oppression's  sway ; 

Yet  mid  the  griefs  their  hearts  that  wring, 

They  weep  for  thy  deep  suffering. 

May  He  who  ruleth  over  all, 

Soon  re-unite  thy  household  band, 

And  let  thy  honored  lord  once  more 
Amid  his  own  beloved  stand. 

Millions  will  hail  the  joyful  hour, 

That  sees  him  free  from  tyrant's  power  I 

:METBOPOLITAN  RECOBD. 


ADAPTED     TO     A     GERMAN     AIR, 

BY  MISS  JULIA.  C.    MINTZLNG,    SOUTH   CAROLINA. 

THE  storm  has  drifted  far  the  wreck, 
The  main-sails  shattered,  sweep  the  deck, 

The  flag  is  furled  in  glory — 
Aye  comrades,  lift  the  fallen  yards, 
vStand  firm ! — the  helm  holds  yet  rewards, 

Your  faith  shall  write  its  story. 

Tho'  mad  the  breakers,  rough  the  tide, 
Tho'  tempests  wild  our  bark  shall  ride, 
Thro'  Hate's  hell- whirl  of  fire  I 


390  THE   SOUTHEEN  AMARANTH. 

Man  the  main  gallant ! — reef  the  sails  F 
True  to  the  Past — no  doubt  empales, 
Tho'  fiercer  waves  rise  higher. 

The  clouds  are  towering  dark  with  gloom, 
The  signal  beacons  fitful  loom, 

Tho'  shrouding  mist  we're  bounding  f 
The  fog-bells  ring  in  the  low  appeal, 
Solemn  the  Future — rifts  reveal, 

We  bide  the  clash  resounding. 

Each  breeze  a  thousand  echoes  brings, 
The  thunder  still — of  battle  rings, 

Thy  wrath  for  them  is  gleaming, 
Its  lightnings  flash  a  ghastly  wreck 
Steady  our  helm  !  boys,  clear  the  deck  ! 

Strike ! — while  they  still  are  dreaming !. 

Strike ! — God  shall  nerve,  shall  guide  the  handr 
Strike  for  the  rights  He  gave  your  land, 

To  live  as  men,  not  minions  1 
Go  hurl  the  despots  back  to  Hell, 
Let  manhood  break  the  slavish  spell, 

Fretting  the  soul's  free  pinions. 

Then,  comrades,  lift  the  fallen  yards, 
Firm  by  the  helm ! — high  o'er  ye,  guardsr 

For  aye,  that  sign  in  glory : — 
The  din,  the  clash,  the  conflict  comes, 
And  louder  call  the  echoing  drums — 

God ! — write  us  free  in  story  ! 

DIXIE  COTTAGE,  TAPPAHANNOCK,  VA.,  March  25^,  1867. 


PAGE  BBOOK.  391 


BY  DE.    F.    O.    TICKNOB,    GEOEGIA. 

THEEE  is  dust  on  the  doorway,  there  is  mould  on  the 

wall, 
There's  a  chill  at  the  hearthstone,  a  hush  through  the 

hall, 

And  the  stately  old  mansion  stands  darkened  and  cold, 
By  the  leal  loving  hearts  that  it  sheltered  of  old 

No  light  at  the  lattice,  no  smile  at  the  door, 
No  cheer  at  its  table,  no  dance  on  its  floor, 
But  "glory  departed,"  and  silence  alone! 
Dust  unto  dust,  upon  pillar  and  stone  ! 

No  laughter  of  childhood,  no  shout  on  the  lawn, 
No  footstep  to  echo  the  feet  that  are  gone, 
Feet  of  the  beautiful,  form  of  the  brave  ; 
Failing  in  other  lands,  gone  to  the  grave  ! 

No  anthem  of  praises,  no  hymn  rising  clear, 

No  song  at  the  bridal,  no  wail  at  the  bier, 

All  the  chords  of  its  symphonies  scattered  and  riven, 

Its  altar  in  ashes  !     Its  incense  in  Heaven  ! 

'Tis  life's  deepest  sadness,  thus  lonely  to  stand 
'Mid  the  wreck  of  a  HOME,  once  the  pride  of  the  land, 
Its  chambers  unfilled  as  its  children  depart, 
The  melody  stilled  in  its  desolate  heart. 

Yet  softly  the  sunshine  still  rests  on  the  grass, 
And  lightly  and  swiftly  the  cloud  shadows  pass, 


392  THE   SOUTHERN   AMAKANTH. 

And  still  the  broad  meadow  exults  in  the  sheen, 
"With  its  foam-crests  of  snow  and  its  billows  of  green. 

And  the  verdure  shall  creep  to  the  mouldering  walls 
And  the  sunlight  shall  sleep  in  the  desolate  halls, 
And  the  foot  of  the  pilgrim  shall  find  to  the  last, 
Some  fragrance  of  home  in  the  shrine  of  the  past 
THL  LAND  WE  LOVE. 


A    CHEISTMAS  LAY. 

MBS.  MABGABET  J.  PBESTON. 

AH  !  the  happy  Christmas  times ! 

Times  we  all  remember ; 
Times  that  flung  a  ruddy  glow 

O'er  the  gray  December ; 
Will  they  never  come  again, 

"With  their  song  and  story  ? 
Never  wear  a  remnant  more 

Of  their  olden  glory  ? 
Must  the  little  children  miss 

Still  the  festive  token? 
Must  their  realm  of  young  romance 

All  be  marred  and  broken  ? 
Must  the  mother  promise  on, 

While  her  smiles  dissemble, 
And  she  speaks  right  quietly, 

Lest  her  voice  should  tremble : 
"Darlings  !  wait  till  father  comes — 

"Wait — and  we'll  discover 


WHEN   THE   WAR   IS   OVER.  393 

Never  were  such  Christmas  times, 
When  the  war  is  over." 

II. 

Underneath  the  midnight  sky, 

Bright  with  starry  beauty, 
Sad,  the  shivering  sentinel 

Treads  the  round  of  duty  : 
For  his  thoughts  are  far  away, 

Far  from  strife  and  battle, 
As  he  listens  dreamingly, 

To  his  baby's  prattle  ; — 
As  he  clasps  his  sobbing  wife 

Wild  with  sudden  gladness, 
Kisses  all  her  tears  away — 

Chides  her  looks  of  sadness — 
Talks  of  Christmas  nights  to  come, — 

And  his  step  grows  lighter, 
Whispering,  while  his  stiffening  hand 

Grasps  his  musket  tighter ; — 
"  Patience,  love  ! — keep  heart !  keep  hope  I 

To  your  weary  rover, 
What  a  home  our  home  will  be 

When  the  war  is  over !" 

Ill 

By  the  twilight  Christmas  fire, 

All  her  senses  laden 
With  a  weight  of  tenderness, 

Sits  the  musing  maiden  ; 
From  the  parlor's  cheerful  blaze, 

Far  her  visions  wander, 
To  the  white-tent  gleaming  bright 


394:  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

On  tlie  hill-side  yonder. 
Buoyant  in  her  brave  young  love, 

Flushed  with  patriot  honor, 
No  misgiving,  no  fond  fear 

Flings  its  shade  upon  her. 
Though  no  mortal  soul  can  know 

Half  the  love  she  bears  him, 
Proudly,  for  her  country's  sake, 

From  her  heart  she  spares  him. 
God  be  thanked !  she  does  not  dream 

That  her  gallant  lover 
Will  be  in  a  soldier's  grave 

When  the  war  is  over  ! 

IY. 

'Midst  the  turmoil  and  the  strife 

Of  the  war- tides  rushing 
Every  heart  its  separate  woe 

In  its  depths  is  crushing. 
Who  has  time  for  tears,  when  blood 

All  the  land  is  steeping  ? 
In  our  poverty  we  grudge 

Even  the  waste  of  weeping  ! 
But  when  quiet  comes  again, 

And  the  bands,  long  broken, 
Gather  round  the  hearth,  and  breathe 

Names  now  seldom  spoken — 
Then  we'll  miss  the  precious  links, 

Mourn  the  empty  places, 
Bead  the  hopeless  "  Nevermore — " 

In  each  other's  faces ! 
Oh  !  what  aching,  anguished  hearts 

O'er  lone  graves  will  hover, 


CHRISTMAS,  1863  395 

With  a  new,  fresh  sense  of  pam 
When  the  war  is  over  ! 

Y. 

Stern  endurance,  bitterer  still, 

Sharp  with  self-denial, 
Fraught  with  loftier  sacrifice, 

Fuller  far  of  trial- 
Strews  our  flinty  path  of  thorns, 

Marks  our  bloody  story — 
Fits  us  for  the  victor's  palm, 

Weaves  our  robes  of  glory  ! 
Shall  we  faint  with  God  above, 

And  His  strong  arm  under, 
And  the  cold  world  gazing  on, 

In  a  maze  of  wonder  ? 
No  !  with  more  resistless  march, 

More  resolved  endeavor, 
Press  we  onward — struggle  still, 

Fight  and  win  forever  ! 
Holy  peace  will  heal  all  ills, 

Joy  all  losses  cover, 
Raptures  rend  our  Southern  skies, 

When  the  war  is  over. 


1863. 

BY   HENBY   TIMKOD. 

How  grace  this  hallowed  day  ? 
Shall  happy  bells  from  yonder  ancient  spire, 
Send  their  glad  greetings  to  each  Christmas  fire 

Round  which  the  children  play  ? 


396  THE   SOUTHEBN  AMARANTH. 

Alas  for  many  a  morn, 

That  tongueless  *  tower  hath  cleaved  the  Sabbath  air, 
Mute  obelisk  of  ice,  aglare 

Beneath  the  Arctic  moon. 

Shame  to  the  foes  that  drown 
Our  psalms  of  worship  with  their  impious  drum  I 
The  sweetest  chimes  in  all  the  land  lie  dumb 

In  some  far  rustic  town. 

There  let  us  think  they  keep 
Of  the  dead  yules,  which  here  beside  the  sea 
They've  ushered  in  with  old  world  English  glee, 

Some  echoes  in  their  sleep. 

How  shall  we  grace  the  day  ? 
"With  feast  and  song  and  dance,  and  antique  sports, 
And  shouts  of  happy  children  in  the  courts, 

And  tales  of  ghost  and  fay  ? 

Is  there  indeed  a  door 

Where  the  old  pastimes,  with  their  cheerful  noise, 
And  all  the  merry  round  of  Christmas  joys, 

Could  enter  as  of  yore  ? 

Would  not  some  pallid  face 
Look  in  upon  the  banquet,  calling  up 
Dread  shapes  of  battle  in  the  wassail  cup, 

And  trouble  all  the  place  ? 


*  St.    Michael's,   the  oldest  church  in   the  United  States.     The 
chime  of  bells  was  imported  before  the  ^Revolution  of  1776. 


CHRISTMAS,    1863.  397 

How  could  we  bear  the  mirth, 
"While  some  loved  reveller  of  a  year  ago 
Keeps  his  mute  Christmas  now,  beneath  the  snow 

In  cold  Virginia  earth  ? 

How  shall  ye  grace  the  day  ? 
Ah  1  let  the  thought  that  on  this  holy  morn 
The  Prince  of  Peace,  the  Prince  of  Peace  was  born, 

Employ  us  while  we  pray. 

Pray  for  the  peace,  which  long 
Hath  left  this  tortured  land,  and  haply  now 
Holds  its  white  court  on  some  far  mountain's  brow 

There,  hardly  safe  from  wrong. 

Let  e  yery  sacred  fane 
Call  its  sad  votaries  to  the  shrine  of  God, 
And  with  the  cloister  and  the  tented  sod 

Join  in  the  solemn  strain ! 

With  pomp  of  Eoman  form, 

"With  the  grave  ritual  brought  from  England  shore ; 
And  with  the  simple  faith  which  asks  no  more 

Than  that  the  heart  be  warm. 

He,  who  till  time  shall  cease 
Shall  watch  that  earth  where  once  not  all  in  vain 
He  died  to  give  us  peace,  will  not  disdain 

A  prayer,  whose  theme  is  peace. 

Perhaps,  ere  yet  the  Spring 
Hath  died  unto  the  Summer — over  all 
The  land,  the  peace  of  His  vast  love  shall  fall 

Like  some  protecting  wing. 


398  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARAXTH. 

Oh  !  ponder  what  it  means  ! 
Oh  !  turn  the  rapturous  thought  in  every  way, 
Oh  !  give  the  vision  and  the  fancy  play, 

And  shape  the  coming  scene. 

Peace  in  the  quiet  dells, 
Made  rankly  fertile  by  the  blood  of  men, 
Peace  in  the  wood  and  in  the  lonely  glen, 

Peace  in  the  peopled  vale  ; 

Peace  in  the  crowded  town, 
Peace  in  the  thousand  fields  of  waving  grain, 
Peace  in  the  highway  and  the  flowery  lane — 

Peace  on  the  wind-swept  down. 

Peace  on  the  farthest  seas, 
Peace  in  our  sheltered  bays  and  ample  streams, 
Peace  where'er  our  starry  garland  gleams, 

And  peace  in  every  breeze. 

Peace  on  the  whirring  marts, 
Peace  where  the  scholar  thinks,  the  hunter  roams 
Peace !  God  of  peace  I  peace,  peace  in  all  our  homes, 

And  peace  in  all  our  hearts  ! 


BY  MBS.    FANNY  DOWNING. 


MERRY  old  Christmas  has  come  again, 
With  plenty  of  pleasure,  naught  of  pain  ; 
Joy  and  mistletoe  round  his  head, 
And  shining  holly  with  berries  red. 


THE  HOLLY  AXD  CYFBE8S.  399 

Happy  and  hearty,  and  full  of  glee, 
The  king  of  jolly  good  fellows  is  he, — 
Jovial  and  joyous,  we  all  agree, 
So  goodly  a  Christmas  we  never  did  see  ! 
Hark  !  hear  his  sleigh-bells  jingle  and  shake, 
Listen — what  music  his  reindeer  make  ! 
As  down  on  the  pavement,  and  up  the  roof, 
They  daintily  patter  with  delicate  hoof. 
Hear  how  he  chirrups,  and  sings,  and  laughs  ; 
See  how  he  sparkles,  and  shouts,  and  quaffs 
From  his  foaming  flagon  a  health  to  all ! 
Mark  how  his  fairy  favors  fall — 

A  sceptre  and  crown, 

A  mitre  and  gown, 
A  ring  and  a  ribbon  oome  fluttering  down, 

And  what  wealth  untold 

Of  the  rare,  red  gold, 
From  his  lavish  treasure  is  richly  rolled! 
Happy  and  hearty,  and  full  of  glee, 
The  king  of  jolly  good  fellows  is  he, — 
Kindly  and  cordial,  and  blithe  and  free, 
Jovial  and  joyous,  we  all  agree, 
So  goodly  a  Christmas  we  never  did  see  I 

So  sings  the  world,  with  its  blatent  mouth  j 
In  it — not  of  it — the  stately  South, 
Folding  her  mantle  around  to  hide 
The  gaping  wound  in  her  quivering  side, 
Listens  in  silence,  then  makes  reply  : 

Such  is  your  portion,  but  what  have  I  ? 
Desolate  homes  and  a  blighted  land, 
Sackcloth  and  ashes,  and  blade  and  brand, 
Grinding  pressure  beyond  appeal, 


400  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

Throng  of  scorpions  and  yoke  of  steel  I 

Bitter  bereavement  and  pitiless  pain, 

Only  my  honor  and  truth  remain ! 

Vanish'd  the  Christmas  I  knew  of  yore, 

Empty  the  garners,  stolen  the  store  ; 

Perish'd  the  treasure,  broken  the  band, 

"Which  master  and  servant,  with  heart  and  hand, 

Softened  and  brightened  at  Christmas  fair, 

Till  the  links  of  the  chain  lay  light  as  air. 

Links  of  the  chain  ! — Ah  !  the  bitterest  grief 

Lies  in  the  lot  of  my  captive  chief: 

Prison'd  in  bars,  like  a  felon  thing, 

He  on  whose  brow  God  has  written — "  KING." 

Shackled,  insulted,  tortured  and  tried, 
Still,  as  a  star  in  the  firmament  wide, 
Circled  with  shadows,  vapors  and  night, 
Draws  from  their  contrast  lovelier  light ; 
He,  through  his  grief,  shines  with  heavenlier  ray, 
Bright  and  more  bright  to  the  perfect  day  ! 
Festal  holly,  your  wreath  may  be, 
Only  the  cypress  crown  for  me  ! 
Can  any  sorrow  with  mine  compare  ? 
Shall  I  not  perish  in  weak  despair  ? 
No  !  in  my  misery's  very  excess, 
Find  I  strength  and  power  to  bless  ; 
Leaving  my  present  and  future  state 
All  to  the  God  of  the  desolate  ; 
Knowing  his  promises,  firm  and  sure, 
Like  the  rock-ribbed  frame  of  the  earth  endure. 
Keeping  his  watchword,  happen  what  must, 
"  Though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  I" 
And  as  the  Magi  monarchs  of  old, 


STORM:  AND  CALM.  401 

Brought  to  the  manger,  spices  and  gold  : 
I,  and  my  children,  bring  offerings  sweet, 
And  lay  them  low  at  our  Maker's  feet, — 
We  proffer  the  gold  of  a  purer  faith, 
The  myrrh  of  love,  and  the  spicy  breath 
Of  thankfulness,  for  the  Christmas  gift 
Of  the  Prince  of  Peace,  and  grateful  lift 
Our  hearts  to  His  throne,  as  we  humbly  pray 
For  the  peace  "  which  passeth  not  away." 
THE  LAND  WE  LOVE. 


BY  HENBT  TIMBOD. 

SWEET  are  the  kisses  of  the  South, 
As  dropped  from  woman's  rosiest  mouth, 
And  tenderer  are  those  azure  skies 
Than  this  world's  tenderest  pair  of  eyes  ! 

But  ah  !  beneath  such  influence, 
Thought  is  too  often  lost  in  Sense  ; 
And  Action,  faltering  as  we  thrill, 
Sinks  in  the  unnerved  arms  of  Will 

Awake,  thou  stormy  North,  and  blast 
The  subtle  spells  around  us  cast ; 
Beat  from  our  limbs  these  flowery  chains 
With  the  sharp  scourges  of  thy  reins  1 

Bring  with  thee  from  thy  Polar  cave. 
All  the  wild  songs  of  wind  and  wave, 
Of  toppling  berg  and  grinding  floe, 
And  the  dread  avalanche  of  snow. 


402  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

"Wrap  us  in  Arctic  night  and  clouds ! 
Yell  like  a  fiend  amid  the  shrouds 
Of  some  slow-sinking  vessel,  when 
He  hears  the  shrieks  of  drowning  men  I 

Blend  in  thy  mighty  voice  what'er 
Of  danger,  terror  and  despair 
Thou  hast  encountered  in  thy  sweep 
Across  the  land  and  o'er  the  deep. 

Pour  in  our  ears  all  notes  of  woe, 
That  as  these  very  moments  flow, 
Rise  like  a  harsh  discordant  psalm, 
While  we  lie  here  in  tropic  calm. 

Smiting  our  weak  hearts  with  bitter  shame, 
Bear  us  along  with  thee  like  flame : 
And  prove  that  even  to  destroy 
More  Grodlike  may  be  than  to  toy 
And  rust  or  rot  in  idle  joy  ! 
SOUTHERN  OPINION. 


? 

BY  WALKER  MERRIWEATHER  BELL,    OF  KENTUCKY. 

"Now  welcome  the  summer,  and  welcome  my  Willie — 
The  summer  to  nature,  my  Willie  to  me."  BURNS. 

RING  out  a  joyous  welcome, 

A  glad  and  wild  refrain, 
Your  scented  bells,  ye  hyacinths ; 

My  lord  has  come  again. 
Come  forth,  shy  valley  lilies, 

With  all  your  silver  urns, 


WELCOME   HOME.  403 

Filled  with  their  choicest  incense — 
My  soldier  love  returns. 

Pearls  of  the  pendant  snow- drop, 

Round  which  the  wild  bee  hums, 
And  lightly  bending  blue-bells, 

Look  up,  he  comes  !  he  conies  ! 
Lift,  sorrowful  Narcissus, 

That  pale,  sweet  face  of  thine ; 
Forget  the  beauty  of  thy  love, 

To  gaze  awhile  on  mine. 

Oh,  queenly  rose  be  gracious  ! 

A  boon  of  thee  I  crave, 
Blush  out  in  all  thy  beauty, 

To  welcome  back  the  brave ; 
For  ere  her  time,  the  lily, 

Has  reared  her  stately  head ; 
And,  like  a  snowy  banner, 

Her  broad  white  petals  spread. 

The  fuchsias  waving  welcome, 

Sway  on  their  slender  stems  ; 
And  gold  and  purple  pansies, 

Strew  at  his  feet  their  gems ! 
While  still  the  violet  lingers, 

Her  green  leaves  peeping  through — 
Unwilling,  till  she  sees  him, 

To  shut  her  eyes  of  blue. 

Sound  all  your  fiery  clarions, 

Oh,  warlike  trumpet- vine — 
Ye  thickly  twining  jessamines 

And  shadowy  woodbine. 


404         THE  SOUTHEEN  AMARANTH. 

Swing  out  your  crimson  torches, 

Your  white  and  golden  stars, 
To  light  my  warrior's  footsteps, 

Eeturning  from  the  wars. 
Ye  passion-hearted  tulips, 

Bloom  gorgeously  around ; 
And  at  his  feet,  tall  poppies, 

Fling  all  your  bright  leaves  down. 
Oh,  linger,  sweet  spring  blossoms, 

And  lengthen  out  your  prime, 
And  all  ye  summer  flowerets, 

Come  forth  before  your  time. 
Let  all  things  bright  and  beautiful, 

In  nature,  be  abroad, 
To  smile  with  me,  and  welcome  back,. 

My  soldier  love,  my  lord ! 
METBOPOUTAN  KECOED. 


THE  battle-cry  and  cannon's  roar  are  hushed 

To  peaceful  sounds ; 
Stayed  is  the  rapid,  crimson  tide,  that  gushed 

On  battle  grounds. 
The  warring  hosts,  that  once  in  conflict  met, 

Have  homeward  gone ; 
Peace  reigns  through  all  the  Southern  lands,  but  yet 

The  war  goes  on. 

Where  once  a  woman's  cry  for  help  was  heard 
In  piteous  notes, 


THE  WAR  GOES  ON.  405 

In  woodland  groves  the  music  of  the  bird 

Harmonious  floats. 
The  smoke  of  burning  homes,  that  hid  the  sun, 

Is  swept  away ; 
The  sunbeams  o'er  a  landscape  waste  and  dun 

Serenely  play. 

The  snowy  flag  that  thousands  swore  to  keep, 

No  longer  sways ; 
The  stalwart  forms  that  once  upheld  it,  sleep 

In  unknown  graves ; 
And  Stone  wall's  fiery  soul  rests  glory  wreathed 

In  still  abode ; 
And  he  who  led  the  Southern  arms,  has  sheathed 

His  stainless  sword. 

-On  Appomattox's  field,  the  victor  said, 

"  The  war  must  cease." 
The  winged  winds  the  joyous  tidings  spread 

And  whispered,  "  Peace  I" 
Awhile  the  widow's  tears  and  orphan's  ceased  to  flow: 

"  The  war  is  done," 
From  Congress  Halls,  a  wild  voice  answers,  "  JSTo  !" 

"  The  war  goes  on !" 

The  war  goes  on  against  a  stricken  land, 

All  drenched  in  blood  ! 
Her  few  surviving  sons  cannot  withstand 

Oppression's  flood. 
They,  who  to  save  their  country's  honop  tried, 

The  good — the  brave — 
Sleep  in  the  soil  for  which  they  fought  and  died, 

But  could  not  save. 


406  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH, 

See,  then,  the  valiant  hosts  arrayed  to  strike 

A  prostrate  foe ! 
Their  leaders  in  blind  fury,  raving  like 

The  fiends  below. 
Thersites,  right  and  left  his  venom  flinging 

On  all  the  good — 
The  voice  of  Paris  through  the  Senate  ringing,, 

Calling  for  blood. 


Warriors  that  on  their  country's  battle-fields 

Have  never  trod, 
Priest  of  a  horrid  faith  that  homage  yields 

To  an  ebon  God ! 
Statesmen,  whose  highest  aim  it  is  to  be, 

Successful  knaves ; 
Lovers  of  freedom,  who  the  black  make  free, 

And  white  men  slaves  ! 


Well  may  the  Keystone  State  in  silence  weep, 

And  veil  her  face 
In  shame,  that  on  her  head,  her  sons  should  heap 

Such  foul  disgrace. 
Her  HERO'S  praise  let  Massachusetts  sing 

In  praises  sweet ; 
But  patriots  b]ush  to  see  this  poor,  vile  thing, 

In  Webster's  seat 


Must  Freedom,  Honor,  Justice,  Law  and  all 

We  hold  most  dear, 
Assailed  in  this  unholy  warfare,  fall 

And  disappear  ? 


THE   JACKET   OF   GKET.  407 

No !  Freedom's  voice  to  all  her  sons  proclaim : 

"  Defend  the  right !" 
Drive  demagogues  from  earth,  and  sink  their  names 

In  endless  night. 
OLD  GUAKD. 


BY  MRS.    C.    A.    BALL,    SOUTH   CAROLINA. 

FOLD  it  up  carefully,  lay  it  aside, 
Tenderly  touch  it,  look  on  it  with  pride — 
For  dear  must  it  be  to  our  hearts  evermore, 
The  Jacket  of  Grey  our  loved  soldier  boy  wore. 

Can  we  forget  when  he  joined  the  brave  band, 
Who  rose  in  defence  of  our  dear  Southern  land, 
And,  in  his  bright  youth  hurried  on  to  the  fray 
How  proudly  he  donned  it,  the  Jacket  of  Grey? 

His  fond  mother  blessed  him,  and  looked  up  above, 
Commending  to  Heaven  the  child  of  her  love ; 
What  anguish  was  hers,  mortal  tongue  may  not  say, 
When  he  passed  from  our  sight,  in  the  Jacket  of  Grey. 

But  her  country  had  called  and  she  would  not  repine, 
Though  costly  the  sacrifice  placed  on  the  shrine, 
Her  heart's  dearest  hopes  on  the  altar  she  lay, 
When  she  sent  out  her  boy  in  the  Jacket  of  Grey. 

Months   passed ;    and  war's  thunders  rolled  over  the 

land, 
Unsheathed  was  the  sword  and  lighted  the  brand  ; 


408  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

"We  heard  in  the  distant  the  sounds  of  the  fray, 
When  she  sent  out  her  boy  in  the  Jacket  of  Grey. 

Ah !  vain,  all  vain,  were  onr  prayers  and  our  tears ; 
The  glad  shout  of  victory  rang  in  our  ears, 
But  our  treasured  one  on  the  red  battle  field  lay 
While  the  life-blood  oozed  out  on  the  Jacket  of  Grey. 

His  young  comrades  found  him,  and  tenderly  bore 
The  cold,  lifeless  form  to  his  home  by  the  shore. 
Oh !  dark  were  our  hearts  on  that  terrible  day 
When  we  saw  our  dead  boy  in  the  Jacket  of  Grey. 

Ah !  spotted,  and  tattered  and  stained  now  with  gore 
Was  the  garment  which  once  he  so  proudly  wore  ; 
We  bitterly  wept  as  we  took  it  away, 
And  replaced  with  death's  white  robes,  his  Jacket  of 
Grey. 

We  laid  him  to  rest  in  his  cold,  narrow  bed, 
And  'graved  on  the  marble  we  placed  o'er  his  head, 
As  the  proudest  of  tributes  our  sad  hearts  could  pay, 
"  He  never  disgraced  the  JACKET  OF  GEEY  !" 

Then  fold  it  up  carefully,  lay  it  aside, 
Tenderly  touch  it,  look  on  it  with  pride — 
For  dear  must  it  be,  to  our  hearts  evermore 
The  Jacket  of  Grey,  our  soldier  boy  wore. 


DOFFING  THE   GREY.  409 


BY  LIEUTENANT  FAI/LIGANT,    SAVANNAH,    GEO. 

OFF  with  your  grey  suits,  boys  — 

Off  with  your  rebel  gear  — 
They  smack  too  much  of  the  cannon's  peal, 
The  lightning  flash  of  your  deadly  steel, 
The  terror  of  your  spear. 

Their  color  is  like  the  smoke 

That  curled  o'er  your  battle-line  ; 
They  call  to  mind  the  yell  that  woke, 
When  the  dastard  columns  before  you  broke, 
And  their  dead  were  your  fatal  sign. 

Off  with  the  starry  wreath, 

Ye  who  have  led  the  van  ; 
To  you  'twas  the  pledge  of  glorious  death, 
When  we  followed  you  over  the  gory  heath, 

Where  we  whipped  them  man  to  man. 

Down  with  the  cross  of  stars  — 

Too  long  hath  it  waved  on  high  ; 
"'TIS  covered  all  over  with  battle-scars, 
But  its  gleam  the  Northern  banner  mars  —  - 
'Tis  time  to  lay  it  by. 

Down  with  the  vows  we've  made, 
Down  with  each  memory  — 
Down  with  the  thoughts  of  our  noble  dead  — 
Down  to  the  dust  where  their  forms  are  laid, 
And  down  with  Liberty  ! 


410  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


Respectfully  Dedicated,  to  the  Knights  of  the  Shears. 

BY   VIRGINIA   MADISON.       (S.    A.    BEOCK. ) 

"  COME  out  that  grey  !"  a  Yankee  cried  ; 
"  Excuse  me,'r  Johnny  Eeb  replied, 
"For  I  have  nought  to  wear  beside " — 
And  his  jacket  quickly  buttons. 

"  That  liver}'  is  disallowed,'' 
The  Yankee  lustily  avowed, 
But  Johnny  most  profoundly  bowed, 
And  fingered  at  his  buttons. 

Nonplussed,  the  Yankee  shook  his  head, 
And  furious  frowned,  (discomfited,) 
"If  you  won't  doff  that  grey"  he  said, 

"  Why  then,— I'll  take  your  buttons  I" 

The  rarest  fun  that  e'er  was  seen 
On  "  Terra  Firma,''  was,  I  ween, 
"When  came  the  order  startling — keen — 
To  cut  off  Rebel  buttons. 

Where'er  a  grey-lade,  showed  his  face, 

On  the  street  or  in  the  market-place, 

A  Ya.nkee  armed  at  once  gave  chase, 

To  cut  off  his  brass  buttons  I 

Poor  Johnny  Eeb !  what  could  he  do 
But  tremble,  and  repentant  view 
The  flashing  shears  and  knife  so  new, 
For  cutting  off  his  buttons  ? 


CUTTING   OFF    THE   BUTTONS.  411 

And  like  a  lamb  to  slaughter  led, 

At  once  he  bowed  Ms  vanquished  head, 

"  Do  as  you  will,"  he  meekly  said, 

And — "  farewell,  my  poor  buttons  I" 

Alas  !  poor  Johnny  was  forlorn 

As  Samson  when  his  locks  were  shorn ; 

"I'll  pin  my  jacket  with  a  thorn, 

Since  I'm  allowed  no  buttons ! 

"  I've  nary  a  red  to  buy  a  pin, 
Confederate  scrip  is  not  worth — tin, 
It  is  indeed  a  shameful  sin 

To  rob  me  of  my  buttons  I 

"  "Pis  well  'tis  summer  time,"  groaned  he, 
Else  I  might  freeze  and  die,  you  see, 
Bereft,  I  am,  so  suddenly 

Of  all  rny  jacket  buttons  !" 

"  The  game  is  up !"  triumphant  cried 

His  hostile  foe.    "  Oh  no,  not  yet  I"  a  voice  replied, 

"  You  surely  never  have  denied 

A  lady,  some  brass  buttons  ?" 

"  Why  never,  no  !"  the  gallant  said, 
And  paling  white  and  blushing  red, 
The  hero  of  this  valorous  deed 

Delivered  up  the  buttons. 

With  a  merry  twinkle  in  her  eye, 
The  lady  smiled  and  made  reply — 
"  I  thank  your  sir  !  most  heartily 

For  these  poor  Eebel  buttons  1" 


412  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

From  her  pocket  out  a  twine  she  drew, 
And  strung  them  quickly  in  his  view, 
And  round  her  neck  the  necklace  threw — 
And  a  tear  dropped  on  the  buttons. 

"  I  love  these  relics,  for  they  tell 
How  long  our  poor  boys  fought,  and  well— 
The  story  makes  my  proud  heart  swell, 
The  story  in  these  buttons!" 

And  galvanized  they  now  appear, 
Adorning  many  a  shell-like  ear, 
Of  certain  girls  who  dare  to  wear 

These  precious,  proscribed  buttons, 

A  brooch  their  spotless  collar  pins, 
Burnished,  until  like  gold  it  shines, 
You'll  see  them  all  along  "  the  lines," 
The  Eebel  girls  in  buttons. 

"  Oppressed  by  might,  and  want  and  care, 
Meekly  subdued  "  the  "  mm,"  we  hear, 
But  bravely,  and  without  a  fear, 

The  women  wear  the  buttons. 

METBOPOLITAN  KECOBD. 


THE   CONFEDERATE  BILL.  413 


BY  MAJOR   S.    A.    JONAS,*   LOUISIANA. 

The  following  lines  were  found  written  on  the  back  of  a  five  hun 
dred  dollar  Confederate  note. 

KEPRESENTING  nothing  on  God's  earth  now, 
And  naught  in  the  water  below  it ; 

As  a  pledge  of  a  nation  that's  dead  and  gone, 
Keep  it  dear  friend,  and  show  it. 

Show  it  to  those  who  will  lend  an  ear 

To  the  tale  this  paper  can  tell, 
Of  liberty  born,  of  the  patriot's  dream, 

Of  the  storm-cradled  nation  that  fell. 

Too  poor  to  possess  the  precious  ores, 
And  too  much  of  a  stranger  to  borrow, 

We  issued  to-day  our  promise  to  pay, 
And  hoped  to  redeem  on  to-morrow. 

The  days  rolled  on,  and  weeks  became  years, 

But  our  coffers  were  empty  still ; 
Coin  was  so  rare  that  the  treasury  quaked 

If  a  dollar  should  drop  in  the  till. 

But  the  faith  that  was  in  us  was  strong  indeed, 

And  our  poverty  well  discerned ; 
And  these  little  checks  represented  the  pay, 

That  our  suffering  volunteers  earned. 


*  Chief  Engineer  of  General  S.  D.  Lee's  staff. 


414:  THE   SOUTHERN   AMAltANTH. 

We  knew  it  had  hardly  a  value  in  gold, 
Yet  as  gold  our  soldiers  received  it, 

It  gazed  in  our  eyes  with  a  promise  to  pay, 
And  each  patriot  soldier  believed  it 

But  our  boys  thought  little  of  price  or  pay, 
Or  of  bills  that  were  over  due  ; 

"We  knew  if  it  brought  us  bread  to-day, 
It  was  the  best  our  poor  country  could  da 

Keep  it — it  tells  our  history  over, 

From  the  birth  of  its  dream  to  the  last ; 

Modest,  and  born  of  the  angel  of  Hope, 
Like  the  hope  of  success  it  has  passed. 


BY   A.    J.    EEQUIEE. 

FOLD  up  the  gorgeous,  silken  sun, 

By  bleeding  martyrs  blest, 
And  keep  the  laurels  it  has  won 

Above  its  place  of  rest. 

~No  trumpet's  note  need  harshly  blare — 

ISTo  drum-funereal  roll — 
Nor  trailing  sables  drape  the  bier 

That  frees  a  dauntless  soul ! 

It  lived  with  Lee,  and  arched  his  brow 
From  Fate's  empyreal  palm : 

It  sleeps  the  sleep  of  Jackson  now, 
As  spotless  and  as  calm. 


ASHES   OF  GLOIIY.  415 

It  was  outnumbered,  not  outdone. 

And  they  shall  shuddering  tell, 
"Who  struck  the  blow,  its  latest  gun. 

Flashed  ruin  as  it  fell. 

Sleep,  shrouded  Ensign !   not  the  breeze 

That  smote  the  victor  tar, 
With  death  across  the  heaving  seas, 

Of  fiery  Trafalgar ; 

Not  Arthur's  knights,  amid  the  gloom, 
Their  knightly  deeds  have  starred ; 

Nor  Gallic  Henry's  matchless  plume, 
Nor  peerless  born  Bayard  ; 

Nor  all  that  antique  fables  feign, 

And  Orient  streams  disgorge ; 
Nor  yet  the  Silver  Cross  of  Spain, 

And  Lion  of  St.  George. 

Can  bid  thee  pale !  Proud  emblem,  still, 

Thy  crimson  glory  shines 
Beyond  the  lengthened  shades  that  fill 

Their  proudest  kingly  lines. 

Sleep  !  in  thine  own  historic  might, 

And  be  thy  blazoned  scroll 
A  warrior's  banner  takes  its  flight 

To  greet  the  warrior's  soul  I 
METBOPOUTAN  RECORD. 


416          THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


BY  H.    L.    FLASH. 

FOUR  stormy  years  we  saw  it  gleam, 
A  people's  hope — and  then  refurled, 

Even  while  its  glory  was  the  theme 
Of  half  the  world. 

The  beacon  that,  with  streaming  ray, 
Dazzled  a  struggling  nation's  sight, 

Seeming  a  pillar  of  cloud  by  day, 
Of  fire  by  night. 

They  jeer,  who  trembled  as  it  hung. 
Comet-like,  blazoning  the  sky  ; 

And  heroes,  such  as  Homer  sung, 
Followed  it — to  die. 

It  fell — but  stainless  at  it  rose, 

Martyred  like  Stephen,  in  the  strife ; 

Passing,  like  him,  girdled  with  foes, 
From  death  to  life. 

Fame's  trophy,  sanctified  by  tears, 

Planted  forever  at  her  portal ; 
Folded,  true — what  then?  four  short  years 

Made  it  immortal. 


THE  BLESSED  HAND.  417 


Eespecifully  Dedicated  to  the  Ladies  oftTie  SoutTiern  Relief  Fair,  Baltimore. 

BY  S.    TEACKLE  WALMS. 

There  is  a  legend  of  an  English  monk  who  died  at  the  monastery 
of  Aremburg,  where  he  had  gone  and  illuminated  many  books,  hop 
ing  to  be  rewarded  in  Heaven.  Long  after  his  death  his  tomb  was 
opened,  and  nothing  could  be  seen  of  his  remains  but  the  right  hand 
with  which  he  had  done  his  pious  work,  and  which  had  been  mirac 
ulously  preserved  from  decay. 

FOR  you  and  me  who  love  the  light 

Of  God's  -unclouded  day, 
It  were  indeed  a  dreary  lot, 

To  shut  ourselves  away 
From  every  glad  and  sunny  thing, 

And  pleasant  sight  and  sound, 
And  pass  from  out  a  silent  cell, 

Into  the  silent  ground. 

Not  so  the  good  monk  Anselm,  thought, 

For,  in  his  cloister's  shade, 
The  cheerful  faith  that  lit  his  heart 

Its  own  sweet  sunshine  made ; 
And  in  its  glow  he  prayed  and  wrote 

From  matin-song  till  even, 
And  trusted  in  the  Book  of  Life 

To  read  his  name  in  Heaven, 

What  holy  books  his  gentle  art 

Filled  full  of  saintly  lore  1 
"What  pages  brightened  by  his  hand 

The  splendid  missals  bore ! 


418  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

What  blossoms  almost  fragrant-twined 
Around  each  blessed  name, 

And  how  his  Saviour's  cross  and  crown 
Shone  out  from  cloud  of  flame ! 

But  unto  clerk  as  unto  clown, 

One  summons  comes  alway, 
And  Brother  Anselm  heard  the  call, 

At  vesper  chime,  one  day. 
His  busy  pen  was  in  his  hand, 

His  parchment  by  his  side — 
He  bent  him  o'er  the  half- writ  prayer, 

Kissed  Jesus'  name,  and  died ! 

They  laid  him  where  a  window's  blaze 

Flashed  o'er  the  graven  stone, 
And  seemed  to  touch  his  simple  name, 

With  pencil  like  his  own ; 
And  there  he  slept  and  one  by  one, 

His  brothers  died,  the  while, 
And  trooping  years  went  by,  and  trod 

His  name  from  off  the  aisle. 

And  lifting  up  the  pavement,  then, 

An  Abbot's  couch  to  spread, 
They  let  the  jewelled  sunlight  in 

Where  once  lay  Anselm's  head. 
No  crumbling  bone  was  there,  no  trace 

Of  human  dust  that  told, 
But  all  alone,  a  warm  right  hand 

Lay,  fresh  upon  the  mould. 

It  was  not  stiff  as  dead  men's  are, 
But,  with  a  tender  clasp, 


THE   CONFEDERATE   FLAG.  419 

It  seemed  to  hold  an  unseen  hand 

Within  its  living  grasp, 
And  ere  the  trembling  monks  could  turn 

To  hide  their  dazzled  eyes, 
It  rose  as  with  a  sound  of  wings, 

Eight  up  into  the  skies ! 

Oh,  loving  open  hands,  that  give  ; 

Soft  hands,  the  tear  that  dry  ; 
Oh,  patient  hands  that  toil  to  bless  ; 

How  can  ye,  ever  die  ! 
Ten  thousand  vows  from  yearning  hearts 

To  Heaven's  own  gate  shall  soar, 
And  bear  you  up.  as  Anselm's  hand 

Those  unseen  angels  bore  ! 

Kind  hands  !  oh,  never,  near  to  you 

May  come  the  woes  ye  heal ! 
Oh,  never  may  the  hearts  ye  guard, 

The  griefs  ye  comfort,  feel ! 
May  He,  in  whose  sweet  name  ye  build, 

So  crown  the  work  ye  rear, 
That  ye  may  never  clasped  be, 

In  one  unanswered  prayer  ! 

BALUMOBE,  April  8t7i,  1867. 


No  more  o'er  human  hearts  to  wave, 
Its  tattered  folds  forever  furled  : 

We  laid  it  in  an  honored  grave, 
And  left  its  memories  to  the  world. 


420  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

The  agony  of  long,  long  years, 
May,  in  a  moment,  be  compressed, 

And  with  a  grief  too  deep  for  tears, 
A  heart  may  be  oppressed. 

Oh !  there  are  those  who  die  too  late 
For  faith  in  God,  and  Eight,  and  Truth,- 

The  cold,  mechanic  grasp  of  Fate 

Hath  crushed  the  roses  of  their  youth, 

Hore  blessed  are  the  dead  who  fell 
Beneath  it  in  unfaltering  trust, 

Than  we,  who  loved  it  passing  well, 
Yet  lived  to  see  it  trail  in  dust 

It  hath  no  future  which  endears, 
And  this  farewell  shall  be  our  last : 

Embalm  it  in  a  nation's  tears, 
And  consecrate  it  to  the  past ! 

The  mouldering  hands  that  to  it  clung, 
And  flaunted  it  in  hostile  faces, 

To  pulseless  arms  that  round  it  flung, 
The  terror  of  their  last  embraces 

To  our  dead  heroes — to  the  hearts 
That  thrill  no  more  to  love  or  glory, 

To  those  who  acted  well  their  parts, 
Who  died  in  youth  and  live  in  glory — 

With  tears  forever  be  it  told, 

Until  oblivion  covers  all : 
Until  the  heavens  themselves  wear  old, 

And  totter  slowly  to  their  fall 
METBOPOLTTAN  EECOBD. 


THE   CONQUERED   BANNER.  4:21 


Published  first  in  the  New  York  Freeman's  Journal. 
BTMOINA.  (FATHER  RYAN.) 

FUEL  that  banner  !  for  'tis  weary, 
'Hound  its  staff  'tis  drooping  dreary j 

Furl  it,  fold  it,  it  is  best ; 
For  there's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
And  there's  not  a  sword  to  save  it, 
And  there's  not  one  left  to  lave  it, 
In  the  blood  that  heroes  gave  it ; 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it, 

Furl  it,  hide  it,  let  it  rest ! 

Take  the  banner  down,  'tis  tattered  ; 
Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered, 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered, 

Over  whom  it  floated  high ; 
Oh,  'tis  hard  for  us  to  fold  it, 
Hard  to  think  there's  none  to  hold  it, 
Hard  that  those  who  once  unrolled  it, 

Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh. 

Furl  that  banner  !  furl  it  sadly, 
Once  ten  thousand  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  ten  thousands  wildly,  madly, 

Swore  it  should  forever  wave — 
Swore  that  freeman's  sword  could  never, 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever, 
Till  that  flag  should  float  forever 

O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave  ! 


422  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Furl  it !  for  the  hands  that  grasped  it,, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it,. 

Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low ; 
And  that  banner  it  is  trailing 
"While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 

Of  its  people  in  their  woe. 
For  though  conquered,  they  adore  it, 
Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it^ 
"Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it, 
Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it, 
And — oh !  wildly  they  deplore  it, 

Now  to  fold  and  furl  it  so. 

Furl  that  banner  !  true  'tis  gory, 
Yet  'tis  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  'twill  live  in  song  and  story, 

Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust ; 
For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages, 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages, 
Shall  go  sounding  down  through  ages^ 

Furl  its  folds,  though  now  we  must 

Furl  that  banner !  softly,  slowly  ; 
Treat  it  gently,  it  is  holy — 

For  it  droops  above  the  dead. 
Touch  it  not,  unfurl  it  never, 
Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever, 

For  its  people's  hopes  are  dead  I 


KEEP  IT  STILL,  428 


it  Still 

tyy        &)?*>*>*** 


A  EEPLY  TO  THE   CONQUERED  BANNER. 

BY  SIR  HENKY  DE  HOGHTON,  OF  ENGLAND. 

GALLANT  Nation  foiled  by  numbers, 
Say  not  that  your  hopes  are  fled  ; 

Keep  that  glorious  Flag  that  slumbers, 
One  day,  to  avenge  your  dead. 

Keep  it,  widows  —  sonless  mothers, 

Keep  it,  sisters,  mourning  brothers  ; 
Keep  it  with  an  iron  will  — 

Think  not  that  its  work  is  done, 
Noble  banner,  keep  it  still. 
Keep  it,  till  your  children  take  it  — 

Once  again  to  wave,  and  make  it, 
All  their  sires  have  bled  and  fought  for, 

All  their  noble  souls  have  wrought  for  ; 
Bled  and  fought  for  all  alone  ! 

"  All  alone,"  aye  —  shame  the  story, 
Millions  here  deplore  the  stain, 

Shame,  alas  !  for  England's  glory, 
Freedom  called,  and  called  in  vain. 

Purl  that  Banner,  sadly,  slowly, 
Treat  it  gently  —  for  'tis  holy  — 

Till  that  day,  yes,  furl  it  sadly, 
Then  once  more  unfurl  it  gladly, 

1  'CONQUERED  BANNER"  —  keep  it  Still  f 
NEW  YOBK  FBF.KMAN'S  JOURNAL. 


424  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


THO3HAS  DUNN  ENGLISH,    M.    D.,    NEW 

LOST  !  wherefore  lost  ?     That  is  not  lost  forever, 
~W  hich  yields  to  numbers  on  the  field  of  blood : 

For  truth  has  many  fields  for  her  endeavor — 
Seas  in  their  ebb  can  wait  the  hour  of  flood. 

Worn  out  by  contest  with  a  myriad  foemen, 
If  champions  grow  exhausted  and  despair, 

What  then — if  on  some  cloudy  day  the  gnomon 
Points  not  the  hour — the  dial  still  is  there. 

The  clouds  will  pass — the  skies,  not  always  shrouded, 
Will  gleam  with  glory,  though  to-day  they  lower, 

And  then  the  dial,  never  more  enshrouded, 

Will  mark,  and  plainly  mark,  the  triumph  hour. 

Lost !  wherefore  lost  ?     'Tis  not  because  in  battle 
Its  friends  were  routed  by  o'erthronging  foes, 

Not  'mid  the  cannon's  roar  and  musket's  rattle, 
Truth  only  deals  its  most  effective  blows. 

No  cause  is  lost,  that,  in  itself,  has  merit, 

Because  its  champions  to  brute-force  succumb— 
The  sons,  with  pride,  the  fathers'  wrongs  inherit, 
And  they  will  speak — 'tis  only  brutes  are  dumb. 

The  surest  weapon  is  not  gun  or  sabre, 
Cannon,  nor  rifle,  when  for  truth  we  fight : 

A  few  fit  words  surpass  the  idiot's  jabber, 

Tongue,  pen,  and  press,  are  potent  for  the  right 


THE    LOST   CAUSE.  425 

Not  always  Sisyphus  may  fail,  and  glorious 
The  hour  that  witnesses  his  labors  o'er ; 

Let  him  roll  on,  he  yet  will  be  victorious, 
•And  oh  the  summit  rest  to  toil  no  more. 

Lost !  what  is  lost  ?     The  lives,  the  gold,  the  labor 
Of  thousands,  given  for  four  long,  weary  years  ! 

The  story  goes  from  neighbor  unto  neighbor, 
From  sire  to  son,  bat  is  not  told  with  tears. 

It  is  not  told  with  shame,  nor  heard  with  terror, 
How,  for  a  principle,  a  people  fought; 

Not  in  the  cause,  there  lay  the  evident  error, 
But  in  the  mode  by  which  the  end  was  sought 

Ballots  as  weapons  are  than  bullets  surer, 
As  will  be  proven  ere  the  strife  is  done : 

Truth,  by  discussion,  finds  her  throne  securer — 
The  council  closes  what  the  sword  began. 

Lost !  never  lost !  a  cause  when  those  who  love  it, 
Laugh  at  misfortune,  and  reverse  defy, 

Loses  no  hope  when  falsehood  sits  above  it, — 
It  may  be  wounded,  but  it  cannot  die. 

But  yesterday  the  Austrian  ruled  in  Venice  : 

To-day,  he  sullen  fires  his  parting  gun  ; 
Appeal  to  reason,  and  abandon  menace, 

Time,  firmness,  patience,  and  the  cause  is  won. 
OLD  GUAED. 


426  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

jf  00?    S01t 

BY     DE.     F.     O.     TICKNOR. 


"  TRUE  !    O   KING." 

YEARS  of  his  Freedom-  —  TWO  ! 

And  a  shivering  phantom  stands 
With  the  firelight  flickering  through 

His  gaunt  and  wasted  hands. 
"  Home  !"  —  and  he  bowed  his  head 

"With  a  low  and  wailing  cry  ; 
Ah  !  not  for  shelter  and  not  for  bread, 

Only  a  place  to  —  DIE. 

To  die  at  the  master's  feet, 

Out  of  the  scourging  storm, 
"Where  the  winds  might  never  beat  — 

Where  Tom  lay  ever  warm  ; 
Till  Freedom,  the  pitiless, 

Fell  from  the  cruel  sky, 
And  the  bitterness  of  his  nakedness 

Made  TOM  so  glad  to  —  DIE  ! 

Oh  !  had  these  arms  the  pith 

Of  just  two  years  ago, 
Wrecked  in  the  wrestle  with 

Yon  wilderness  of  woe  ! 
TOM'S  love  would  bring  the  light 

Back  to  his  master's  eye  —  • 
But  the  blood  in  his  heart  is  cold  to-night, 

And  he  only  comes  to  —  DIE  ! 

Was  it  ever  so  many  years, 

Or  only  yesterday, 
That  master,  among  his  peers 

Went  bravest,  with  TOM,  the  gay  ? 


THE   MAGIC   LAMP.  427 

Before  the  "  locust"  and  "  hail," 

Or  only  an  hour  gone  by, 
That  Freedom  fell  with  a  flail 

On  TOM,  and  made  him  DIE  ! 

Of  the  dear  old  days,  so  sweet 

Does  master  dream  as  he  sits 
Till  the  wreariness  of  his  feet 

Seems — wandering  in  his  wits  ; 
Till  yesterday  seems  so  dim, 

And  the  far-away  so  nigh, 
That  his  head  goes  all  a'swim, 

And  his  heart  is  faint  to  DIE  ! 

POOR  TOM  ! — For  a  hundred  years 

Your  blood  has  coursed  by  mine  ; 
Were  there  warmth  in  bitter  tears, 

There  should  not  lack  the  brine  : 
DYING  ! — I  know  it  well, 

As  I  know  the  signs  on  high — 
The  tokens  that  grimly  tell, 
Out  of  the  STORM,  'twere  well 

BOTH  of  us,  TOM,  to  DIE  ! 


BY   MISS  M.  L.  MEANAY,  PHILADELPHIA. 

OLD,  yet  forever  new,  the  tale 

By  Eastern  princes  wisely  told, 
Of  an  obscure  and  humble  youth 

Who  owned  no  wealth  of  lands  or  gold. 
One  treasure — one  alone — was  his  ; 

It  bore  no  royal  signet  stamp, 
No  glittering  gems,  no  proud  device — 

'Twas  but  a  rough,  unpolished  lamp. 


428  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

In  stranger  eyes  a  worthless  thing, 

Yet  to  Aladdin  power  it  gave 
Beyond  the  grandest  monarch's  reach, 

And  fortune  made  his  willing  slave : 
Cheering  with  magic  ray  his  toil, 

It  stood  his  servant  and  his  guide, 
And  brighter  grew  its  wondrous  charm. 

The  more  his  wishes  multiplied. 

He  asked  for  riches — every  scheme 

Was  like  a  princely  argosy, 
"Whose  precious  freight  around  him  flowed 

In  streams  exhaustless  to  the  sea  ; 
Friends — and  they  thronged  about  his  path  ; 

Fatterers — they  rose  at  every  turn ; 
JLove,  fame, — he  had  them  all ;  his  heart 

For  not  one  boon  denied,  could  yearn. 

JBut  in  his  new  born  pride  of  power, 

With  blessings  waiting  for  his  clasp, 
The  patient  genius  of  his  fate, 

Unprized,  forgotten  was  at  last 
Where  now  his  honors,  wealth  and  power, 

All  he  had  proudly  deemed  his  own  ? 
Wildly  he  hastened  to  redeem 

His  lamp — in  vain !  the  charm  is  gone. 

•Columbia  !  thine  the  Magic  Lamp 

Whose  steady  ray  hath  wonders  wrought, 

Transcending  far  the  wildest  dreams 
In  Oriental  legend  taught. 

What  though  an  infant  nation — poor, 
Obscure,  and  deemed  of  little  worth, 


THE   MAGIC   LAMP.  429 

Soon  Freedom's  bright  and  cheering  beam 
Made  thee — cynosure  of  the  earth. 

Its  lights  gleamed  forth  in  brilliance  strange, 

And  floated  round  thy  starry  iiag, 
It  made  thy  poorest  valley  smile, 

And  gilded  every  rugged  crag  ; 
Its  halo  played  around  thy  name, 

Attracting  millions  from  afar, 
Till  envious  nations  paled  before 

The  dazzling  radiance  of  thy  star. 

But  in  the  zenith  of  thy  fame, 

0  nation  favored  most  of  Heaven  ! 
Forgotten  is  the  priceless  trust 

That  to  thy  guardian  care  was  given : 
The  sacred  fire  thou  shouldst  have  watched 

With  more  than  vestal  love  and  pride, 
Burns  dim  and  low,  its  waning  ray 

Now  turns  to  darkness  by  thy  side. 

Oh  !  rouse  thee  from  thy  fatal  dream, 

Kindle  anew  that  holy  flame, 
Let  not  the  light  of  Liberty 

Die  out  in  hopeless  grief  and  shame. 
Once  gone,  a  paltry  counterfeit — 

Though  despot  nations  gladly  stamp 
Approval,  will  thy  anguish  mock  ; 

Thou'lt  find  no  more  thy  Magic  Lamp  ! 


430  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Co        w 

Written  for  the  New  York  Freeman's  Journal, 
BY  MOINA.  (BET.  ABBAM  j.  KYAN.) 

MY  brow  is  bent  beneath  a  heavy  rod ! 

My  face  is  wan  and  white  with  many  woes, 
But  I  will  lift  my  poor,  chained  hands  to  God, 
And  for  my  children  pray  and  for  my  foes. 
Beside  the  graves  where  thousands  lowly  lie 

I  kneel — and  weeping  for  each  slaughtered  son — 
I  turn  my  gaze  to  my  own  sunny  sky, 

And  pray,  Oh !  Father,  may  Thy  will  be  done. 

My  heart  is  filled  with  anguish  deep  and  vast-; 

My  hopes  are  buried  with  my  children's  dust, 
My  joys  have  fled — my  tears  are  flowing  fast ; 
In  whom,  save  Thee,  our  Father,  shall  I  trust  ? 
Ah  !  I  forgot  Thee,  Father,  long  and  oft, 

When  I  was  happy,  rich,  and  proud,  and  free ; 
But  conquered  now,  and  crushed,  I  look  aloft, 
And  sorrow  leads  me,  Father,  back  to  Thee. 

Amid  the  wrecks  that  mark  the  freeman's  path 

I  kneel — and  wailing  o'er  my  glories  gone, 
I  still  each  thought  of  hate,  each  throb  of  wrath, 
And  whisper — Father,  let  Thy  will  be  done. 
Pity  me,  Father  of  the  Desolate ! 

Alas  !  my  burdens  are  too  hard  to  bear ; 
Look  down  in  mercy  on  my  wretched  fate, 

And  keep  me,  guard  me  with  Thy  loving  care. 


A  PRAYER  OF  THE  SOUTH.  431 

Pity  me,  Father !  for  His  holy  sake 

Whose  broken  Heart  bled  at  the  feet  of  Grief, 
That  hearts  of  earth,  wherever  they  shall  break, 
Might  go  to  His  and  find  a  sure  relief. 

Ah,  me  !  how  dark !     Is  this  a  brief  eclipse  ? 

Or  is  it  Night  with  no  To-morrow's  Sun  ? 
Oh  !  Father  !  with  my  pale  sad  lips, 

And  sadder  heart,  I  pray — Thy  will  be  done. 

My  homes  are  joyless  and  a  million  mourn 
Where  many  met  in  joys  forever  flown  ; 
Whose  hearts  were  light,  are  burdened  now  and  lorn, 
Where  many  smiled,  but  one  is  left  to  mourn. 
And  ah  !  the  widows'  wails,  the  orphans'  cries, 

Are  morning  hymn,  and  vesper  chant,  to  me ; 

And  groans  of  men,  and  sounds  of  women's  sighs 

Commingle,  Father,  with  my  prayer  to  Thee. 

Beneath  my  feet — ten  thousand  children  dead — 

Oh !  how  I  loved  each  known  and  nameless  one  ! 
Above  their  dust  I  bow  my  crownless  head, 

And  murmur — Father  !  still — Thy  will  be  done. 
Ah  !  Father  thou  didst  deck  my  own  loved  land 

With  all  bright  charms,  and  beautiful,  and  fair; 
But  foemen  came  and  with  a  ruthless  hand 
Spread  ruin,  wreck  and  desolation  there. 

Girded  with  gloom — of  all  my  brightness  shorn, 

And  garmented  with  grief,  I  kiss  Thy  rod 
And  turn  my  face,  with  tears  all  wet  and  worn, 
To  catch  a  smile  of  pity  from  my  God. 

Around  me  blight  where  all  before  was  bloom ! 
And  so  much  lost — alas  !  and  nothing  won ; 


432  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Save  this, — that  I  can  lean  on  wreck  and  tomb 
And  weep — and  weeping  pray — Thy  will  be  done. 

And  oh  !  'tis  hard  to  say — but  said,  'tis  sweet — 

The  words  are  bitter,  but  they  hold  a  balm  ; 
A  balm  that  heals  the  wounds  of  my  defeat, 
And  lulls  my  sorrow  into  holy  calm, 
It  is  the  prayer  of  prayers — and  how  it  brings, 

When  heard  in  Heaven,  peace  and  hope  to  me ; 
When  Jesus  prayed  it,  did  not  angels'  wings 
Gleam  'mid  the  darkness  of  Grethsemane  ? 

My  children,  Father,  Thy  forgiveness  need, 

Alas  !  their  hearts  have  only  place  for  tears  ; 
Forgive  them,  Father,  every  wrongful  deed 
And  every  sin,  of  those  four  bloody  years. 

And  give  them  strength  to  bear  their  boundless 

loss, 
And  from  their  hearts  take  every  thought  of 

hate  ; 
And  'while   they  climb   their  Calvary  with  their 

Cross, 
Oh !  help  them,  Father,  to  endure  its  weight 

And  for  my  Dead,  my  Father,  may  I  pray  ? 

Ah !  sighs  may  soothe,  but  prayers  shall  soothe  me 

more  ! 

I  keep  eternal  watch  above  their  clay — 
Oh  !  rest  their  souls  my  Father,  I  implore  I 

Forgive  my  foes — they  know  not  what  they  do — 
Forgive  them  all  the  tears  they  made  me  shed  ; 
Forgive  them — though  my  noblest  sons  they  slew, 
And  bless  them, — though  they  curse  my  poor, 
dear  Dead  1 


CONSTITUTION  IN  MEMOKIAM.  433 

Oil !  may  my  woes  be  each  a  carrier  dove, 

With  swift,  white  wings,  that,  battling  with  my  tears, 
"Will  bear  Thee,  Father,  all  my  prayers  of  love, 
And  bring  me  peace,  in  all  my  doubts  and  fears. 
Father,  I  kneel  amid  ruin,  wreck  and  grave, 

A  desert  waste — where  all  was  erst  so  fair ; 
And  for  my  children  and  my  foes  I  crave 
Pity  and  pardon — Father !  hear  my  prayer ! 


IN      MEMORIAM. 


BY  H.    BALLARD. 


LIE  there  bedraggled  and  decried, 

Thou  poor  dishonored  scroll, 
Though  once  the  freeman's  hope  and  pride ; 

The  soldier's  bannerol ; 
In  which  the  sovereign  nations  set 

Their  will  with  magic  pen, 
And  every  speaking  tint  seems  yet 

The  blood  of  patriot  men. 

Illumed  by  Marshall's  static  lore, 

From  Taney's  truth  more  bright, 
Till  thou  wert  as  the  Ark  before 

The  wandering  Israelite ; 
And  as  the  Ark  encircled  wall, 

Before  their  shout  went  down, 
Thy  mandate  shook  the  tyrants  thrall, 

His  sceptre  and  his  crown. 


434  THE   SOUTHERN    AMARANTH. 

But  virtue  sunk  in  false  repose, 
.  The  martyr's  blood  in  clay, 
And  pristine  truths  like  virgin  snows, 

Passed,  like  the  snows,  away, 
False  tenets  then — and  falser  hearts, — 

But  0  !  'twere  long  to  tell 
How  severed  in  a  hundred  parts, 

The  Chart  of  freemen  fell. 

But  time  shall  tell,  till  time  is  over, 

How  old  Virginia  stood, 
And  from  a  hundred  fields  and  more, 

Eepelled  the  vandal  flood 
Then  backward  borne,  though  battling  yet, 

She  seized  her  bannered  shroud, 
And  in  a  blaze  of  glory  set 

Behind  a  crimson  cloud 
METROPOLITAN  KECOED. 


BY    PAUL   H.    HAYNE. 

No  longer  shall  the  darksome  cloud 
Of  Northern  Hate  and  Envy  shroud 
The  radiance  of  our  Poets  proud. 

They  come,  a  glorious  band,  to  claim 
The  guerdon  of  their  poet-fame — 
Their  brows  with  heavenly  light  aflame  ! 

*  It  was  not  possible,  in  accordance  with  the  scope  and  design  of 
this  poem,  to  introduce  the  many  gifted  female  poets  of  the  South. 
Such  an  introduction  would  have  extended  the  piece  to  an  unreason- 
able  length. 


THE   SOUTHERN  LYRE.  435 

'That  Mystic  Bard  whose  k'  Eaven"  broods, 
Broods  sternly,  o'er  his  solemn  moods, 
His  weird,  funereal  solitudes ; — 

Whose  genius  lives  in  realms  of  Blight, 

Yet  oft  towards  the  Infinite 

Essays  to  rise  on  wings,  of  might : — 

Who  sought  the  nether  gulfs  profound, 
Deep  as  Thought's  daring  plummet's  sound — 
A  lurid  spirit,  wildly  crowned 

With  bays  of  supernatural  bloom — 
Yet,  flashing  from  his  wizard  tomb 
An  Angel's  glory  through  the  gloom  ! 

ALLSTON  !  o'er  whose  illustrious  way 
Two  Muses  shed  their  separate  ray, 
Each  struggling  for  the  regal  sway  : — 

Painting  and  Poesy  ! — he  won 
From  both,  ere  yet  his  race  was  run, 
The  plaudit  of  a  deep  "  well  done  !" 

Here  PINCKNEY  !  with  his  lyric  glow, 
His  delicate  nature's  happy  flow 
Of  fancies,  whiter  than  the  snow, 

But  warm  as  sunshine  ;  lilies  sweet, 
And  roses,  in  a  wreath  complete, 
Above  his  genial  forehead  meet ! 

And  He,  whose  rugged  presence  shows 

A  soul  whereon  the  tempest  blows, 

Have  left  at  last  a  stern  repose  J^^\  B R A^p*w 

f  "     OF  THE  ^^ 

I  UNIVERSITY  ; 


436  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Whose  songs,  with  weightiest  meanings  fraught^ 
And  trenchant  measures,  strongly  wrought 
In  strains  of  olden  English  thought, 

Please  not  our  fancy's  lighter  hour, 

But  fair  with  health,  and  rife  with  power, 

Rain  round  us  in  a  fruitful  shower ! 

0 

"  Poet  of  Woodlands  !"  men  will  see 
More  clearly  what  they  owned  in  Thee 
When  thou,  oh  Bard  !  hast  ceased  to  be  I 

And  WILDE  !  his  polished  numbers  glide 
SJerenely  ;  on  that  roseate  tide, 
A  hundred  charmed  Fancies  ride, 

Like  golden  shallops  o'er  a  stream 
Of  fairy -land ;  how  gently  seem 
Affection's  moon-like  rays  to  gleam 

Across  his  manly  brow,  who  sung 

"  My  Father,"  with  a  trembling  tongue, 

And  tears  from  heart-deep  memories  wrung  I' 

And  PIKE  !  whose  Muse — a  sylvan  maid — 
Thro'  all  the  woodland  haunts  hath  strayed, 
Fair  Dian  of  the  Western  glade  ! 

And  GRAYSON  !  with  his  vein  clear-hued, 
Chaste,  purely  classic,  and  imbued 
With  those  rare  graces  that  bedewed 

The  style  of  Goldsmith  !— his  mild  brow, 
Whereon  such  temperate  lustres  glow, 
Seems  shrinking  from  the  laurel  bough. 


THE   SOUTHEKN    LYRE.  437 

"We  fain  would  place 

~*  *  *  CRAFTS!   the  gay, 

Glad  genius,  in  whose  sparkling  lay 
His  soul  burst  outward, .  like  a  day 

Of  earliest  spring-time.     MEEK  !  who  dwells 
Far  in  the  misty  forest  dells 
And,  at  the  somewhat  turbid  wells 

Of  Indian  lore,  his  fancy  slakes 

"With  SIMONS,  whose  fresh  measure  wakes 

Boldest  by  tropic  streams  and  brakes  ! 


But  lo  !  our  younger  Minstrels  rise, 
.High-browed,  with  kindling  mien  and  eyes, 
Bathed  in  the  bliss  of  Earth  and  Skies  ! 

Not  dead  to  us,  but  fair  as  when 
He  charmed  the  listening  ears  of  men 
With  music  from  his  mountain  glen  ; 

Soft  threnodies  from  soul  and  brain 
Pierced  by  an  inward  thorn  of  pain — 
Most  touching  in  his  "  Florence  Yane," 

COOKE  and  his  Poet-Brother  pass, 
Musing  amid  the  autumn  grass, 
Of  rich  Virginia  woods  ;  alas, 

"That  they — twin  Minstrels,  bold  and  true — 
Have  given  the  waiting  world  so  few 
Of  those  rare  songs,  mixed  fire  and  dew  I 


438     *  THE   SOUTHERN  AMAEANTH, 

But  stay  !  what  subtle  notes  are  these,. 
Borne  on  the  fragrant  Southern  breeze 
From  out  the  Palms  ? — strange  witcheries 

Of  purest  Art  to  Genius  wed, 
Float  sweetly,  grandly,  overhead ; 
Most  willingly  our  souls  are  led 

Thro'  paths  of  fancy,  and  delight, 
Whereon  the  sunshine  streaming  bright, 
Seems  mingled  tenderness  and  might  I 

Oh,  golden  lays !  no  common  lyre 
Outpours  those  strains  of  love  or  ire, 
All  instinct  with  the  sacred  fire  I 

The  u  Call  to  Arms,"  in  thrilling  tone, 
Eings  like  a  silver  trumpet  blown, 
»       For  Knights  to  guard  their  Sovereign's  Throne  I 

And  "  Carolina,"  like  a  wail, 

First  strikes  the  dubious  spirit  pale — 

Then,  as  a  keen  sword  smiting  mail 

Of  proof,  extorts  an  answer  clear, 
'Twere  well  the  sullen  Foe  should  hear, 
"With  echoings  of  a  stern  "  Beware  1" 

Here,  KANDALL  !  with  his  harp  that  flings 
Fair,  spray-like  notes  from  out  its  strings, 
Blended  with  gentlest  murmurings 

Of  love,  both  sensuous  and  divine, 
Grleams  with  his  spirit  pure  and  fine, 
Like  star-light  thro'  the  Poet-line  I 


THE   SOUTHERN   LYRE.  439 

But,  fired  at  need  by  impulse  high, 
His  tender  Muse  can  cease  to  sigh, 
Soaring  in  Patriot  ecstasy  ! 

There,  THOMPSON  !  with  his  scholar's  mien, 
His  front  so  graceful  and  serene, 
Walks  calmly  o'er  the  fairy  scene ; 

He  owns — whate'er  his  Muse's  part — 
Ease,  learning,  tenderness  and  art — 
Bright  fusion  of  the  mind  and  heart ! 

And  HOPE  !  whose  complex  measure  teems, 
With  gorgeous  images,  and  dreams, 
Dreamt  by  the  haunted  sunset  streams  I 

With  EEQUIEE  !  on  whose  presence  shines 
A  splendor  from  Thought's  inner  shrines, 
The  eye  of  kindred  taste  divines  ! 

And  FLASH  !  the  ardent  and  the  bold, 
Whose  youthful  Muse  is  never  cold, 
Where'er  her  purpling  wings  unfold. 

But  hark !  what  stirring  strain  is  born, 
Clear  as  a  warrior's  bugle  horn, 
Resounding  thro'  the  hills  at  morn, 

To  rouse  his  vassals  from  their  sleep  ? 
That  burning  lyric,  grand  and  deep, 
Comes  from  the  Foeman's  "  donjon  keep," 

In  black  Fort  Warren !      Freemen  start 
To  hear  that  call,  and  camp  and  mart 
Greet  it  with  fiery  leaps  of  heart ! 


440  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


And  now,  the  Poet-throng  from  view 
Slowly  recedes  ;  their  music  true 
Melts  gently  up  the  Heavenly  Blue  ! — 

But  not  in  empty  air  to  die, 

Poet  and  Song  have  passed  us  by, 

With  all  their  varied  harmony ! 

Still  must  we  make  our  music  heard ; 
These  genuine  numbers,  long  deferred 
Full  audience,  shall  not  leave  unstirred, 

In  callous  scorn,  the  hearts  of  those 

"Who,  pondering  in  a  cold  repose, 

Have  watched  our  strife  with  ruffian  foes ! 

The  storm  must  break — the  spring-time  come  ! 
No  longer  drowned  by  trump  or  drum, 

Truth's  voice  shall  *waken  Christendom  ! 

* 

Then,  with  the  war-cloud  rolled  afar, 
And  all  undimmed  our  natal  star, 
Mankind  SHALL  know  us — AS  WE  ARE  ! — 

A  people,  liberal,  noble,  brave, 
And  courteous  to  the  feeblest  slave, 
Trembling  at  fourscore  o'er  his  grave ! 

Unmoved  'mid  battle's  wild  alarms — 
Supreme  in  will — sublime  in  arms — 
Yet  cultured,  open  to  the  charms 


THE   SOUTHERN   LYKE.  441 

Of  Beauty  !  from  whose  genial  Lyre 
Hath  poured  full  oft  a  strain  of  fire, 
To  rise  in  future  ages  higher, 

Unshackled  by  the  Northman's  rule, 
Freed  from  the  Bigot's  canting  school, 
The  maxims  of  the  knave  and  fool, 

The  genius  of  this  youthful  Land, 
Like  some  rare  blossom  will  expand, 
Upflowering  to  the  Fair  and  Grand  ! 

Then  Art  will  build  her  stately  Fane, 
And  Song  resound  from  Height  to  Plain, 
Re-echoing  to  the  Heights  again ! 

Till,  in  the  ripened  time,  shall  rise, 
With  deep,  divinely -thoughtful  eyes, 
And  brow  whereon  the  Destinies 

Placed  even  at  birth,  a  shadowy  crown, 

The  Poet  whose  august  renown 

Will  smite  the  haughtiest  natures  down 

To  homage  ! — from  whose  u  golden  mouth," 
(Fit  well-spring  for  a  World  in  drouth,) 
Outspeaks  the  Shakspeare  of  the  South  1 


4:42  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 


BY   A.    J.    REQUIER. 

IT  was  wrought  by  no  herald,  skilled  in  signs, 

To  emblazon  royal  state, 
But  sprung  from  the  bristling  battle  lines, 

The  flag  of  a  nation's  fate  ! 
Its  folds  as  white  as  a  fleece  of  light, 

Unfurled  to  a  maiden's  prayer, 
And  its  stars,  besprent  upon  azure,  blent 

With  the  cross  of  a  Cavalier. 

I  dwell  on  its  brief,  heroic  days — 

So  famous  and  yet  so  young ! — 
And  drink  the  deep,  mellifluous  lays 

That  the  Troubadours  have  sung  : 
The  ringing  deed  and  the  rampant  steed, 

The  legended  shield  and  lance, 
The  knights  of  old  in  their  helms  of  gold, 

And  the  Dragons  of  old  Romance. 

1  think  of  its  feats  of  high  emprise, 

Upon  land  and  lake  and  brine, 
Of  the  passionate  tears  and  gentle  sighs 

That"  myrtle  its  breezy  shrine  ; 
Of  Shiloh,  the  proud,  and  Richmond  unbowed 

By  missile  and  mire  and  moat ; 
Of  the  old  that  weep  and  the  young  that  sleep 

Wherever  its  colors  float ! 


THE   ORIFLAMME.  443 

And  a  vision  comes  to  my  melted  soul 

Of  the  quenchless  hate  and  scorn 
That  shall  burn  as  a  river  of  fire,  and  roll 

From  the  hearts  of  men  unborn  ; 
Of  a  plighted  vow,  with  the  sword  and  plough, 

To  follow  the  godless  Huns 
Till  Orion  reel  and  the  Bear  congeal 

In  his  orbit  red  with  suns  ! 

And  I  know  by  the  stirrings,  clear  and  strong, 

Of  a  feeling  half  divine — 
By  the  sight  which  reaches  the  doom  of  wrong 

Through  the  spirit's  purest  wine — 
That  its  field  shall  glow  where  the  tropics  blow 

•  To  the  sea  untried  by  tars, 
With  Johnston's  head  on  its  snowy  bed, 

And  Jackson  amongst  its  bars. 

It  was  wrought  by  no  herald,  skilled  in  signs, 

To  emblazon  royal  state, 
But  sprung  from  the  lurid  battle  lines 

In  the  shock  of  a  nation's  fate  ! 
Its  folds  as  white  as  a  fleece  of  light 

Unfurled  to  a  maiden's  prayer, 
And  its  stars,  besprent  upon  azure,  blent 
the  cross  of  a  Cavalier. 


f  0*m 

TO     THE     CONFEDERATE 

TWILIGHT  AT  HOLLYWOOD. 

BY  INNIS   EANDOLPH. 

TO-DAY  our  maidens  gathered  here  to  strew 
The  early  flowers  upon  the  soldiers'  graves, 
In  their  sweet  custom  -;  and  at  early  morn, 
Hither  they  came  with  blossoms,  buds  and  leaves, 
And  earnest  faces  fairer  than  the  flowers. 
]STo  grave  has  been  forgotten— all  are  dressed. 
The  simple  soldier  from  the  distant  State 
Is  loved  and  honored,  though  perchance  unknown. 
And  where  he  sleeps  is  beautiful  with  bloom. 
One  stayed  a  little  when  the  rest  were  gone, 
Beside  a  grave.     Quite  motionless  she  stood, 
Until  the  paths  grew  dim,  then  turned  away; 
And  twilight  gathers  over  Hollywood. 
The  sun  goes  down  behind  a  bank  of  cloud 
And  dashes  all  the  stormy  west  with  blood, 


PRIZE   POEM.  445 

As  dies  a  hero  in  a  broken  cause 

When,  pouring  out  his  wasted  life,  he  leaves 

The  land  he  loved  to  darkness  and  defeat. 

Far  down  below  I  hear  the  river  rush, 
And  standing  in  this  city  of  the  dead 
The  voice  of  waters  seems  a  human  cry 
That  rises  from  the  breadth  of  all  the  land 
Of  shivered  hearthstones  and  of  broken  hearts. 

The  city  growing  sombre  in  the  dusk, 

Was  lit  with  splendor  forty  months  agone, 

When  all  our  best  and  bravest  gathered  there, 

A  nation's  fortress  and  her  capital. 

The  long  streets  trembled  with  the  tramp  of  men, 

And  rang  with  shouting  and  with  martial  strains ; 

And  up  the  glancing  river  came  the  boom 

Of  mighty  guns  that  held  a  fleet  at  bay  ; 

But  sorrow  came  upon  her,  and  defeat, 

She  sank  in  ashes,  and  a  people's  hope 

Sank  with  her  ;  and  her  glory  passed  away. 

Her  arms  were  overthrown,  her  flag  was  torn, 

Her  children  bent  their  heads  beneath  the  yoke 

In  bitter  silence  ;  and  her  chosen  chief 

Was  fettered  in  the  fortress  by  the  sea. 

0  rapid  river,  with  the  mighty  voice, 

Rave  through  thy  hills,  and  wear  away  the  rocks 

Even  as  a  people  wears  away  the  heart 

In  thinking  on  their  glory  and  their  fall.     * 

But  0  the  spirit  of  the  first  campaigns, 
O  days  of  life  and  motion  ! 


446  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

From  Rio  Grande  to  the  Chesapeake 
.They  gathered,  sweeping  joyous  to  the  fight. 
The  wild  yell  rising  from  the  trampling  charge 
Tore  through  the  ragged  rifts  of  battle  smoke, 
And  rose  above  the  thunder  of  the  guns. 
And  as  a  great  wave  on  the  open  sea, 
That  strikes  a  blow  and  leaves  a  wreck  behind, 
They  swept  along,  a  living  surge  of  strength, 
With  tempest  voice  and  crest  of  bayonet. 
God  smiled  at  first,  then  turned  his  face  aside ; 
And  hope,  that  glittered  like  a  sunlit  sword, 
Was  quenched  in  gloom ;  and  still  they  smote  the  foe 
That  rose,  with  strength  renewed,  from  each  defeat, 
Till,  broken  by  their  victories,  they  fell. 
Forever  thin  and  thinner  grew  the  ranks, 
The  weary  march,  the  hungry  bivouac, 
The  scanty  blanket  wet  with  driving  sleet, 
The  sleepless  outpost,  listlessness  of  camp, 
The  longing  for  the  loved  at  home — all  these, 
Far  more  than  wasting  battle,  wasted  them 
Until  their  strength  was  spent.    "Now  low  they  lie, 
And  never  more  upon  Virginia  hills 
Shall  thrill  the  onset  of  the  Southern  lines. 
The  men  that  bore  the  bayonet  and  blade 

Shall  bear  them  now  no  more  ; 
But  0  !  to  think  how  bright  and  swift  they  were, 

And  now  how  cold  and  still ! 


0  rushing  river,  thou  at  least  art  free 
And  fit  to  sing  a  soldier's  requiem, 
Deep-toned  and  tremulous — the  dirge  of  men 
That  once  were  tameless  as  thy  winter  flood. 


JACKSON,    THE   ALEXANDRIA   MARTYR.  447 

When  once  again  we  stand  erect  and  free 

And  we  may  write  a  truthful  epitaph — 

A  nation  uttering  its  grief  in  stone 

Shall  pile  aloft  a  stately  monument. 

Not  that  their  fame  has  need  of  sculptured  urn, 

For  the}  have  liyed  such,  lives  and  wrought  such  deeds 

As  venal  history  cannot  lie  away. 

Till  then  shall  scattered  roses  deck  their  graves 

And  woman's  tear  shall  be  their  epitaph. 

O  river,  though  they  moulder  in  the  dust, 
Let  them  not  perish  from  our  hearts — speak  on, 
And  fill  us  with  thy  rushing  energy, 
That  as  the  gathered  freshets  of  the  spring 
Burst  upward  through  the  shackles  of  the  ice, 
So  we  at  last  may  dash  our  fetters  off — 
For  until  then,  these  men  have  died  in  vain. 
SOUTHERN  OPINION. 


BY   W.    H.    HOLCOMBE,    M.    D.,    VIRGINIA. 

'TWAS  not  the  private  insult  galled  him  most, 
But  public  outrage  to  his  country's  flag, 
To  which  his  patriotic  heart  had  pledged 
Its  faith  as  to  a  bride.     The  bold,  proud  chief, 
The  avenging  host,  and  the  swift  coming  death 
Appalled  him  not.     Nor  life  with  all  its  charms, 
Nor  home,  nor  wife,  nor  children  could  weigh  down 
The  fierce,  heroic  instincts  to  destroy 
The  insolvent  invader.     Ellsworth  fell, 


448  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

And  Jackson  perished  'mid  the  pack  of  wolves, 
Befriended  only  by  his  own  great  heart 
And  God  approving.     More  than  Eoman  soul  I 
O  type  of  our  impetuous  chivalry ! 
May  this  young  nation  ever  boast  her  sons 
A  vast,  and  inconceivable  multitude, 
Standing  like  thee  in  her  extremest  van, 
Self  poised  and  ready,  in  defence  of  rights 
Or  in  revenge  of  wrongs,  to  dare  and  die  I 


BY  COL.    A.  M.  HOBBY,    TEXAS. 

"  My  House  shall  be  called  of  all  nations  the  house  of  prayer  ;  but 
ye  have  made  it  a  den  of  thieves. " 

"  Beware  of  false  prophets  which  come  to  you  in  sheep's  clothing  » 
but  inwardly  they  are  ravening  wolves. " 

"It  was  the  worst  work  that  Satan  and  sin  ever  undertook  in  this 
•world  ;  and  they  that  suffered  in  it  were  not  martyrs  in  a  good  cause, 
but  convicts  in  a  bad  one.  "Who  shall  comfort  them  that  sit  by  dis 
honored  graves  ?" — Sermon  of  Henry  Ward  Seedier. 

VTLE,  brutal  man  !  and  darest  thou 

In  God's  anointed  place  to  preach — 
With  impious  tongue  and  brazen  brow — 

The  lessons  Hell  would  blush  to  teach  ? 
The  cruel  taunt  thy  lips  hath  hissed 

Beneath  Eeligion's  holy  screen, 
Is  false — as  false  Iscariot's  kiss  ; 

Is  false — as  thou  art  vile  and  mean. 

Are  these  the  lessons  which  He  taught? 
And  was  His  mission  here  in  vain  ? 


OUR   DEAD.  449 

Peace  and  good  will  seem  words  of  naught — 
Hell  rules  the  earth  with  hate  again ! 

And  thou  !  its  chosen  instrument, 
Hyena-like,  with  heartless  tread, 

Hast  dared  invade,  with  blood-hound  scent, 
The  sacred  precincts  of  the  dead. 

Not  such  from  those,  dear,  brave  old  South, 

Who  met  thee  in  thine  hour  of  might  1 
But  from  the  coarse,  polluted  mouth 

Of  coward  curs  who  feared  to  fight. 
Dear  loved  old  South  !  contemn  the  curse 

That  those  who  hate  shall  heap  on  you ; 
You've  wept  behind  War's  bloody  hearse, 

That  bore  away  your  brave  and  true ! 

Their  precious  blood,  though  vainly  shed — 

Long  as  thy  shore  old  ocean  laves — 
We'll  bow  with  reverence  o'er  our  dead, 

And  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  graves. 
From  Mexico  to  Maryland, 

Those  graves  are  strewn  like  autumn  leaves— 
What  though  no  mother's  tender  hand 

Upon  their  tomb  a  chaplet  weaves — 

Nor  wives,  nor  sisters,  bend  above 

The  honored  soldiers'  unmarked  mound — 
They  are  objects  of  eternal  love 

In  consecrated  Southern  ground. 
It  recks  not  where  their  bodies  lie — 

By  bloody  hill-side,  plain,  or  river — 
Their  names  are  bright  on  Fame's  proud  sky, 

Their  deeds  of  valor  live  forever. 


450  THE    SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

The  song-birds  of  the  South  shall  sing 

From  forest  grand,  and  flowery  stem, 
And  gentlest  waters  murmuring, 

Unite  to  hymn  their  requiem, 
And  Spring  will  deck  their  hallowed  bed 

With  types  of  resurrection's  day ; 
And  silent  tears  the  night  hath  shed 

The  morning's  beam  will  kiss  away. 

Those  heroes  rest  in  solemn  fame 

On  every  field  where  Freedom  bled  ; 
And  shall  we  let  the  touch  of  shame 

Fall  like  a- blight  upon  our  dead? 
No — wretch  !  we  scorn  thy  hatred  now, 

And  hiss  thy  shame  from  pole  to  to  pole, 
The  brutes  are  better  far  than  thou, 

And  Hell  would  blush  to  own  thy  souL 

"Dishonored  graves?"  take  back  the  lie 

That's  breathed  by  more  than  human  hate, 
Lest,  Ananias-like,  yon  die, 

Not  less  deserving  of  his  fate. 
Our  Spartan  women  bow  in  dust, 

Around  their  country's  broken  shrine  ; 
True — as  their  cause  was  right  and  just, 

Pure — as  their  deeds  have  been  divine. 

Their  angel  hands  the  wounded  cheered  : 
Did  all  that  woman  ever  dares — 

When  wealth  and  homes  had  disappeared, 
They  gave  us  tears,  and  smiles,  and  prayers. 

They  proudly  gave  their  jewels  up — 
For  all  they  loved — as  worthless  toys : 


CHARLES   B.    DREUX.  451 

Drank  to  the  dregs  Want's  bitter  cup, 
To  feed  our  sick  and  starving  boys. 

Their  glorious  flag  on  high  no  more 

Is  borne  by  that  unconquered  band ; 
^Tis  furled  upon  the  "silent  shore," 

Its  heroes  still  around  it  stand. 
No  more  beneath  its  folds  shall  meet 

The  armies  of  immortal  LEE  ; 
The  rolling  of  their  drums'  last  beat, 

Is  echoing  in  eternity  ! 

GALYESTON,  Texas,  January,  1866. 


BY  JAMES   B.    KANDALL. 


WEEP,  Louisiana,  weep  thy  gallant  dead  ! 
Weave  the  green  laurel  o'er  the  undaunted  head  ; 
Fling  thy  bright  banner  o'er  the  heart  which  bled 

Defending  thee ! 

Weep,  Weep,  Imperial  City,  deep  and  wild ; 
Weep  for  thy  martyred  and  heroic  child, 
The  young,  the  brave,  the  free,  and  undefiled, 

Ah  !  weep  for  him  ! 

Lo  !  the  wail  surges  from  embattled  bands. 
By  Yorktown's  plains  and  Pensacola's  sands, 
Reaching  to  the  golden  sugar  lands : 

Adieu !  adieu ! 

*  Of  New  Orleans. 


452  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

The  death  of  honor  was  the  death  he  craved ; 
To  die  where  weapons  clashed,  and  pennons  waved,. 
To  welcome  freedom  o'er  the  opening  grave, 

And  live  for  aye. 

His  blood  had  too  much  lightning  to  be  still ; 
His  spirit  was  the  torrent,  not  the  rill : 
The  gods  have  loved  him,  and  the  Eternal  Hill 

Is  his  at  last, 

He  died  while  yet  his  chainless  eye  could  roll, 
Flashing  the  conflagrations  of  his  soul ! 
The  rose  and  mirror  of  the  bold  Creole. 

He  sleepeth  welL 

Lament,  lone  mother,  for  his  early  fate, 
But  bear  thy  burden  with  a  hope  elate, 
For  thou  hast  shrined  thy  jewel  in  the  state, 

A  precious  boon ! 

And  thou,  sad  wife,  thy  sacred  tears  belong 
To  the  untarnished  and  immortal  throng  : 
For  he  shall  fire  the  poet's  breast  and  song 

In  thrilling  strains. 

And  the  fair  virgins  of  our  sunny  clime 
Shall  wed  their  music  to  the  minstrel  rhyme, 
Making  his  name  melodious  for  all  time — 

It  cannot  die. 


ZOLLICOFFEE.  453 


BY  HAEEY  FLASH. 

FIRST  in  the  fight,  and  first  in  the  arms, 
Of  the  white-winged  angels  of  glory, 

With  the  heart  of  the  South  at  the  feet  of  (rod, 
And  his  wounds  to  tell  the  story. 

For  the  blood  that  flowed  from  his  hero  heart 
On  the  spot  where  he  nobly  perished, 

"Was  drunk  by  the  earth  as  a  sacrament, 
In  the  holy  cause  he  cherished. 

In  heaven  a  home,  with  the  brave  and  blessed, 

And  for  his  soul's  sustaining, 
The  apocalyptic  eyes  of  Christ, 

And  nothing  on  earth  remaining, 

.But  a  handful  of  dust  in  the  land  of  his  choice, 

A  name  in  song  and  story, 
And  Fame  to  shout,  with  her  brazen  voice : 

"  DIED  ON  THE  FIELD  OF  GLORY." 


454  THE  SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 


MBS.    MAHGAEET  J.    PBESTON. 

'  She  has  strength  to  go  forward :  they  enter  the  door, — 

And  there  on  the  crowded  and  blood-tainted  floor, 

Close  wrapped  in  his  blanket,  lies  Douglas  :  his  brow 

Wore  never  a  look  so  seraphic  as  now ! 

She  stretches  her  arms  the  dear  form  to  enfold, — 

God  help  her!  .     .  she  shrieks  .     .     .  it  is  silent  and  cold 

*  ***** 

"  Break  my  heart,  and  cease  this  pain — 
Cease  to  throb,  thou  tortured  brain ; 
Let  me  die, — since  he  is  slain, 

— Slain  in  battle  1 

Blessed  brow,  that  loved  to  rest 
Its  dear  whiteness  on  my  breast — 
Gory  was  the  grass  it  prest, 

— Slain  in  battle  1 

Oh  I  that  still  and  stately  form- 
Never  more  will  it  be  warm ; 
Chilled  beneath  that  iron  storm, 

— Slain  in  battle  1 

Not  a  pillow  for  his  head- 
Not  a  hand  to  smooth  his  head — 
Not  one  tender  parting  said, 

— Slain  in  battle  1 

Straightway  from  that  bloody  sod, 
Where  the  trampling  horsemen  trod — 
Lifted  to  the  arms  of  God ; 

— Slain  in  battle  1 


SLAIN  IN  BATTLE.  455 


Not  my  love  to  come  between, 
"With  its  interposing  screen — 
Naught  of  earth  to  intervene ; 

— Slain  in  battle  ! 

Snatched  the  purple  billows  o'er, 
Through  the  fiendish  rage  and  roar, 
To  the  far  and  peaceful  shore  ; 

— Slain  in  battle ! 

Nunc  demitte — thus  I  pray — 
What  else  left  for  me  to  say, 
Since  my  life  is  reft  away  ? 

— Slain  in  battle  ! 

Let  me  die,  oh !  God ! — the  dart 
Hankies  deep  within  my  heart, 
Hope  and  joy  and  peace,  depart ; 

—Slain  in  battle  1" 
FEOM  BEECHENBKOOK. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LIEUT.  HENKY  LEWIS, 

Commanding  Company  B,  of  the  44th  Virginia  Volunteers,  killed  in 
the  battle  of  Seven  Pines,  May  31st,  1862.  By  a  lady  who  knew  his 
virtues,  and  loved  him  welL 

HE  lay  among  the  dying  and  the  battle  raged  near  by, 
Upon  the  moist  sod  lying  he  was  left  to  bleed  and  die. 
Yet  comrades  came  to  seek  him  and  raised  his  drooping 
head — 


456  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

"  Go  win  your  country's  cause,"  said  he,  "  and  leave  me 
with  the  dead." 


Whole  squadrons  swept  beside  him,  and  the  cannon 
thundered  on, 

His  friends  rushed  with  the  tide  of  war,  and  he  was  left 
alone ! 

Oh  !  not  alone !  for  one  was  there,  the  mighty  "  Prince 
of  Peace," 

"Who  whispered  in  his  dying  ear,  and  bade  his  suffer 
ings  cease, 

And  to  his  weary  dying  eyes  a  beauteous  sight  was 
given — 

The  starry  portals  of  the  skies,  and  peaceful  fields  of 
Heaven. 

He   dreamed   of    waters   pure  and   clear,   the   crystal 

streams  of  life, 

Untainted  by  the  human  tear  or  battle's  bitter  strife. 
His  thoughts  were  with  the  loved  and  lost,  and  radiant 

forms  were  there, 
While  voices  from  the  angel  host,  came  floating  on  the 

air — 
Lower  and  lower  sunk  his  head  and  fainter  came  his 

breath, 
The  Christian  lay  among  the  dead,  and  slept  the  sleep 

of  death. 

The  battle  ceased — the  evening  sun  looked  down  upon 

the  field, 
Where  thousands  died  for  freedom's  cause,  and  dying 

scorned  to  yield, 


THE    SOLDIERS    GRAVE.  457 

While  weeping  comrades  made  his  grave  beneath  the 

bloody  sod, 
His  soul  was  with  the  radiant  hosts  around  the  throne 

of  God. 


BY   PEAKL. 


'Tis  where  no  chisel's  tracing  tells 
The  humble  sleeper's  name, 

No  sordid  marble  proudly  swells 
The  measure  of  his  fame. 

Nor  while  the  pensive  moonbeams  sleep, 

Upon  the  dim  blue  wave, 
Do  mourning  kindred  come  to  weep, 

Beside  the  soldier's  grave. 

But  poised  upon  her  gleaming  wings, 
The  beauteous  summer  bird, 

In  sweet  and  melting  strains,  to  sing 
His  requiem  is  heard. 

And  oft  as  Spring  her  garland  weaves, 
There  blooms  her  dewy  rose, 

And  Autumn  strews  her  yellow  leaves 
Above  his  deep  repose. 

So  true  is  Nature  to  his  tomb — 

So  true  I  almost  crave, 
While  musing  on  the  soldier's  doom, 

To  fill  a  soldier's  grave. 
VICTORIA.  ADVOCATE. 


458  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


BY   HENBY   TIMROD,    OF   SOUTH   CAKOIJNA. 

THE  rain  is  flashing  on  my  sill, 

But  all  the  winds  of  heaven  are  still, 

And  so  it  falls  with  that  dull  sound 

Which  thrills  us  in  the  church-yard  ground, 

When  the  first  spade-full  drops  like  lead 

Upon  the  coffin  dead. 

Beyond  my  streaming  window  pane 

I  cannot  see  the  neighboring  vane  ; 

Yet  from  its  own  familiar  tower, 

The  "bell  comes  muffled,  through  the  shower. 

What  strange  and  unexpected  link 

Of  feeling  touched,  has  made  me  think — 

While  with  a  vacant  soul  and  eye 

I  watch  that  gray  and  stormy  sky — 

Of  nameless  graves  on  battle  plains, 

Washed  by  a  single  winter's  rains, 

Where,  some  beneath  Virginia's  hills, 

And  some  by  green  Atlantic  rills ; 

Some  by  the  waters  of  the  West, 

A  myriad  unknown  heroes  rest  ? 

Ah  1  not  the  chiefs,  who,  dying,  see 

Their  flags  in  front  of  victory ; 

Or  at  their  life-blood's  noblest  cost, 

Pay  for  a  battle  nobly  lost ; 

Calm  from  their  monumental  beds, 

The  bitterest  tears  a  nation  sheds. 

Beneath  yon  lonely  mound — the  spot, 

By  all  save  some  fond  few  forget — 


CENTRAL   ALBERT   SIDNEY  JOHNSTON.  459 

Lie  the  true  martyrs  of  the  fight, 

Which  strikes  for  freedom  and  for  right 

Of  them,  their  patriot  zeal  and  pride, 

The  lofty  faith  that  with  them  died : 

No  grateful  page  shall  further  tell, 

Than  that  so  many  brayely  fell ! 

And  we  can  only  dimly  guess 

"What  worlds  of  all  this  world's  distress, 

What  utter  woe,  despair,  and  dearth, 

Their  fate  has  brought  to  many  a  hearth. 

Just  such  a  sky  as  this  should  weep, 

Above  them,  always  where  they  sleep  ; 

Yet  haply,  at  this  very  hour. 

Their  graves  are  like  a  lover's  bower ; 

And  nature's  self,  with  eyes  unwet 

Oblivious  of  the  crimson  debt, 

To  which  she  owes  her  April  grace, 

Laughs  gayly  o'er  their  burial  place. 


BY   JAMES  L.    BOWEN,    VIRGINIA. 

PART  FIRST. 

ON  Shilo's  plains  a  hero  fell, 
Amid  the  battle's  fiercest  strife — 
In  foremost  ranks  with  Spartan  zeal, 
To  freedom's  cause  he  gave  his  life  ! 

i 

Close  to  the  foe  he  pressed  the  charge, 
With  dauntless  soul  and  god-like  power, 


460  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Disdainful  of  the  foeman's  blade, 

The  shrieking  shell  and  leaden  shower. 

From  rank  to  rank  with  kingly  port, 
And  Koman  firmness  dash'd  he  on, 
And  urged  the  fight  with  trumpet  voice 
Till  the  approach  of  victory's  dawn  ; 

But  ah,  alas  !  as  victory  perched 
Upon  the  hero's  shining  crest, 
He  sank  upon  the  battle  field, 
To  take  the  warrior's  final  rest ! 

As  ebbed  his  life-blood  on  the  plain 

The  martyr  cast  one  parting  glance 

Upon  his  comrades  in  the  fight, 

And  cried,  "  Brave  men  once  more  advance  ln 

The  victory  won,  a  wail  of  woe 
"Went  up  from  hearts  of  war-worn  men — 
And  drops  as  warm  as  woman's  tears, 
Were  shed  by  them,  for  Johnston  then. 

PART   SECOND. 

The  mighty  storm  of  war  is  hushed, 
And  heroes  slain  unconscious  sleep — 
But  living  compeers  of  the  strife. 
For  freedom  lost,  now  vainly  weep. 

Brief  years  have  passed — the  chieftain  sleeps 
A  goodly  sleep,  with  glory's  wreath 
Upon  his  brow,  tho'  pillowed  far 
From  tomb,  that  living  friends  bequeath. 


GENERAL   ALBERT   SYDNEY   JOHNSTON.  461 

And  tho'  now  Freedom  wears  the  chains 
Imposed  by  Faction's  spiteful  hate, 
And  votaries  to  her  holy  cause, 
With  pent  up  anguish  mourn  her  fate, — 

The  hero  chief  is  still  revered — 
His  valorous  deeds  in  memory  live ; 
And  hearts  devoted  to  his  dust 
Once  more  a  solemn  tribute  give, 

Around  the  hospitable  tomb 

By  gracious  M  *  *  *  to  greatness  given, 

In  silence  weep  the  mighty  men 

To  Fame  allied,  by  laws  of  Heaven. 

Expectant  all  with  silent  awe 
And  beating  hearts,  their  vigils  keep, 
Awaiting  now  the  advent  new — 
The  hero  in  his  lasting  sleep. 

Now  opes  the  portal  of  the  tomb, 
And  lo  !  his  presence  slow  appears  ! 
Close  coffined  tho'  the  great  remains, 
Each  loving  heart  dissolves  in  tears  ! 

A  dual  woe  each  soul  o'erwhelms — 
The  Cause,  her  champion,  both  are  dead — 
Manes  of  chief  and  Liberty. — 
Both  shrouded  in  one  gory  bed  ! 

Within  the  aisle  the  sacred  urn 
To  eyes  devoted  is  exposed — 
By  chieftains  known  to  lasting  fame 
The  coffined  greatness  is  disclosed. 


462  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Near  to,  a  venerable  priest, 
Whose  silvered  locks  and  kindly  face, 
Bespeak  the  Christian's  holy  faith, 
Implores  of  God  his  loving  grace ! 

With  eyes  fixed  on  the  heavenly  dome, 
Thence  calls  he  strength  to  patient  hope, 
And  asks  a  balm  for  every  wound 
With  eloquence  and  fervid  trope. 

All  hearts  in  reverence  deep  are  bowed, 
And  with  a  noble  grief  are  stirred — 
And  pulsate  with  a  sobbing  throb, 
To  every  burning,  suppliant  word. 

This  silent  tribute,  oh  how  grand ! 
How  great  the  souls  that  homage  pay  I 
The  glory  of  the  mighty  dead 
Transcends  the  meed  of  vain  array  ! 

Let  jealous  power  restrict  the  pomp 
Of  martial  show  to  doubtful  fame, 
To  add  a  laurel  to  the  brow 
Of  mouldering  patriot  of  a 


name. 


'Tis  meet  that  fame  obscure  and  weak, 
Should  blazoned  be  by  drum  and  bell — 
That  mobocratic  praises  should 
The  list  of  doubtful  praises  swell ; 

But  greatness  true  outshines  the  glare 
Of  vain  device  and  tinseled  gaud, 
And  though  the  tongue  of  Spite  defames 
Its  glorious  halo  sheds  abroad. 


GENERAL   ALBERT    SIDNEY  JOHNSTON.  463 

The  rites  religious  now  performed, 
The  slumbering  chief  is  gently  borne 
By  princes  all — to  take  his  leave 
For  land,  where  for  him  millions  mourn. 

Then  came  the  last,  the  sad  farewell 
Of  living  chieftains  to  the  dead — 
The  heroes,  who,  on  Shilo's  plains, 
Were  by  the  slumbering  chieftain  led. 

PAET  THIKD. 

With  sorrowing  pride  the  ocean  bears, 
Upon  its  gently  swelling  breast, 
The  sacred  relics  to  the  shores 
On  which  is  reared  their  templed  rest 

The  waves  propitious — Texas  mourns 
In  silent  grief,  for  in  her  thrall, 
A  tyrant  will  forbids  the  meed 
Of  public  woe,  and  homage  all ! 

Upon  her  broad  and  sunny  plains, 
Near  to  the  Ocean's  plaintive  wave. 
With  Glory's  wreath  upon  his  brow 
The  chieftain  sleeps  in  honored  grave. 

Wave,  bird,  and  zephyr  hourly  trill 
In  unison  and  plaintive  strain, 
A  requiem  to  the  mighty  dead, 
And  Echo  chants  the  sad  refrain. 


464  THE    SOUTHERN   A3IABAOTH. 


BY  MOLLEE   E.    MOORE,    TEXAS. 

TEXAS,  like  Mary,  a  worshipper, 

Comes  sorrowing ! 
Ha  !  who  keeps  her  away  from  the  sepulchre 

Of  her  shrouded  king  ? 
They  strike  like  cowards  her  galling  chains. 

And  sneer  that  her  lips  are  strangely  dumb  I 
Christ !  will  the  blood  keep  calm  in  our  veins 

Till  the  end  is  come  ? 

Alas  !  my  brothers,  whose  brave  forms  moved 

In  the  battle  flame ! 
Alas  !  my  sisters,  whose  hearts  were  proved 

When  the  midnight  came  ! 
He  comes,  whose  arm  was  so  firmly  steeled  1 

Oh,  warrior  what  of  the  hidden  past  ? 
Are  you  come  as  a  messenger  from  the  field 

Where  your  sword  shone  last  ? 

Oh  I  silent  and  royal,  that  mad  day  died 

On  a  sullen  night ! 
But  the  valley  was  grand  in  the  glow  of  thy  pride ! 

Is  it  not  our  right  ? 


"The  circumstances  attending  the  removal  and  reburial  of  the 
remains  of  General  Albert  Sidney  Johnston,  are  of  too  recent  occur 
rence,  and  too  well  and  generally  understood,  to  need  further  illus 
tration  than  is  conveyed  in  the  above  lines.— Editress. 


RICHMOND  ON  THE  JAMES.  465 

The  laurels  thy  name  and  thy  sword  hath  won  us, 

The  trust  our  fetterless  soil  will  keep  ! 
But  the  eyes  of  our  masters  are  upon  us, 
And  we  may  not  weep  ! 

No  "  glorious  pomp,"  in  the  guarded  street — 

No  roll  of  drums — 
Naught  save  the  echo  of  mournful  feet 

Where  our  hero  comes — 
Silent  bells  in  each  guarded  steeple  ! 

Met,  like  a  prisoner  hanged  for  crime  ? 
But  a  vengeance  cometh,  Oh,  my  peopl( 

Let  us  bide  our  time. 


['  0» 

BY  ANNIE  MAEIA  WELBY,     KENTUCKY. 

A  SOLDIER  boy  from  Bourbon  lay  gasping  on  the  field, 
When  the  battle's  shock  was  over,  and  the  foe  was 

forced  to  yield ; 

He  fell  a  youthful  hero,  before  the  foeman's  aims, 
On  a  blood-red  field  near  Eichmond — near  Eichmond  on 

the  James. 

But  one  still  stood  beside  him — his  comrade  in  the  fray. 
They  had  been  friends  together  through  boyhood's  hap- 

PJ  day, 
And  side  by  side  had  struggled,  in  fields  of  blood  and 

flames, 
To  part  that  eve  near  Eichmond — near  Eichmond  on 

the  James. 


466  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

He  said,  "  I  charge  thee,  comrade,  tlie  friend  in  days 
of  yore, 

To  the  far,  far  distant,  near  ones,  that  I  shall  see  no 
more  ; 

Tho'  scarce  my  lips  can  whisper  their  dear  and  well- 
known  names, 

To  bear  to  them  my  blessing  from  Eichmond  on  the 
James. 

"  Bear  my  good  sword  to  my  brother,  and  the  badge 

upon  my  breast 
To  the  young  and  gentle  sister,  that  I  used  to  love  the 

best ; 
One  lock  take  from  my  forehead,  for  the  mother  still 

that  dreams, 
Of  her  soldier-boy  near  Richmond — near  Richmond  on 

the  James. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  that  mother's  arms  were  folded  round  me 

now, 
That  her  gentle  hand  could  linger  one  moment  on  my 

brow : 
For  I  know  that  she  is  praying,  where   our  blessed 

hearth-light  gleams, 
For  her  soldier's  safe  return,  from  Richmond  on  the 

James. 

"  And  on  my  heart,  dear  comrade,  close  lay  those  nut- 
brown  braids, 

Of  one  that  was  the  fairest  of  all  the  village  maids  ; 

We  were  to  have  been  wedded,  but  death  the  bride 
groom  claims, 

And  she  is  far  that  loves  me,  from  Richmond  on  the 
James. 


RICHMOND  ON  THE  JAMES.  467 

«'  Oh,  does  the  pale  face  haunt  her,  dear  Mend,  that 

looks  on  thee? 

'Or  is  she  laughing,  singing,  in  careless,  girlish,  glee  ? 
It  may  be  she  is  joyous — she  loves  but  joyous  themes, 
Nor  dreams  her  love  lies  bleeding,  near  Richmond  on  the 

James. 

"  And  though  I  know,  dear  comrade,  thoul't  miss  me 

for  awhile, 
When  their  faces — all  that  loved  thee — again  on  thee 

shall  smile: 
Again   thoul't  be  the   foremost  in   all   their  youthful 

games, 
But  I  shall  lie  near  Richmond — near  Richmond  on  the 

James." 

And  far  from  all  that  loved  him,  that  youthful  soldier 

sleeps, 
Unknown  among  the  thousands  of  those  his  country 

weeps ; 
But  no  higher  heart,  nor  braver  than  his,  at  sunset's 

beams, 
Was  laid  that  eve  near  Richmond — near  Eichmond  on 

the  James. 

The  land  is  filled  with  mourning,  from  hall  and  cot 

left  lone, 
We  miss  the  well-known  faces  that  used  to  meet  our 

own, 
And  long  poor  wives  and  mothers  shall  weep — and 

tilted  dames, 
To  hear  the  name  of  Richmond, — of  Richmond  on  the 

James. 
LOTJISTILLE,  KT.,  July,  1862. 


468  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 


THE     MARTYR     OP     NEW     ORLEANS 

BY  INA  M.    POBTEE,    ALABAMA. 

WHERE  murdered  Mumford  lies 

Bewailed  in  bitter  sighs, 

Low  bowed  beneath  the  flag  he  loved 

Martyrs  of  Liberty, 

Defenders  of  the  Free  ! 

Come,  humbly  nigh, 

And  learn  to  die  ! 

Ah,  Freedom  on  that  day 

Turned  fearfully  away, 

"While  pitying  angels  lingered  near, 

To  gaze  upon  the  sod 

Bed  with  a  martyr's  blood ; 

And  woman's  tear 

Fell  on  his  bier ! 

Oh,  God !  that  he  should  die 
Beneath  a  Southern  sky  ! 
Upon  a  felon's  gallows  swinging, 
Murdered  by  tyrant  hand, — 
While  round  a  helpless  band, 
On  Butler's  name 
Poured  scorn  and  shame. 

But  hark  !  loud  paeans  fly 
From  earth  to  vaulted  sky, 


He's  crowned  at  Freedom's  holy  throne 

List !  sweet  voiced  Isrefel  * 
Tolls  for  the  martyr's  knell ! 
Shout  Southrons  high, 
Our  battle  cry ! 

Oome  all  of  Southern  blood, 
Come  kneel  to  Freedom's  God  ! 
Here  at  her  crimson  altar  swear ! 
Accursed  forever  more 
The  flag  that  Mumford  tore 
And  o'er  his  grave 
Our  colors  wave. 


LINES  BY  HIS  WIDOW. 

&i  SLEEP  knits  up  the  raveled  sleeve  of  care," 
They  say.     0,  would  it  knit  up  mine,  and  not 
Leave  this  suffering  heart  of  mine  so  bare. 
A  nightmare  sits  upon  rue,  ever  cold  and  grim, 
And  wherefore  ,  the  horrid  vision  of  a  murdered  Love 
Is  ever  before  me.     Who  were  his  murderers  ? 
A  set  of  dastard  cowards ;  for  what  ?  listen, 
Gentle  reader.     A  mighty  foe  besieged  a  city 
Filled  with  non-combatants,  helpless  women  and  chil 
dren, 

And  ere  the  city  had  surrendered,  hoisted  a  hated 
Symbol,  of  Stars  and  Stripes,  a  strip  or  rag, 

*  The  sweetest  voiced  angel  around  the  throne  of  God.—  OKEENTAI. 

XiEGEND. 


470  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Perchance,  it  will  be,  must  be. 

He,  the  murdered  man,  he  tore  it  down  amid 

A  shower  of  shot  and  shell — what  cared  he  for  his  life  t 

"  Shall  it  be  said  they  hoisted  up  their  flag  before 

The  city  had  surrendered  ?  never,  I  will  tear  it  down  or 

die!" 

He  died  as  a  Southern  man  should  and  can  die — 
For  the  honor  of  his  country — a  Martyr. 
He  sleeps,  a  sleep  that  knows  no  waking, 
In  a  bright  and  joyous  world,  where  sits  a  judge 
The  avenger  of  unjust  and  murderous  deeds. 
But  there  is  one  who  lives,  and  breathes  and  moves, 
And  does  he  sleep  ?  perchance  to  dream 
Of  goblins,  scaffolds,  a  father  pleading 
For  his  life,  a  pale  face  craving  pardon 
For  the. father  of  her  children — such  dreams  ! 
And  do  they  leave  no  weight  upon  him  in  his 
Waking  hours  ?     Let  conscience  answer. 
SOUTHERN  OPINION,  EICHMOND. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ANNIE  CARTER  LEE. 

BY  MAET  B.    CLAKKE.    (TENELIA.) 

"  EARTH  to  earth  and  dust  to  dust" 
Saviour,  in  thy  word  we  trust. 
Sow  we  now  our  precious  grain, 
Thou  shalt  raise  it  up  again. 

*  Daughter  of  General  Eobert  E.  Lee,  who  died  at  Jones  Springs 
Warren  County,  N.  C.,  October  29th,  1862. 


THE  DEATH  OF  ANNIE  CAETEB  LEE.      471 

Plant  we  the  terrestrial  root 

"Which  shall  bear  celestial  fruit ; 

Lay  a  bud  within  a  tomb, 

That  a  flower  in  heaven  may  bloom. 

Severed  are  no  tender  ties, 

Though  in  death's  embrace  she  lies, 

For  the  lengthened  chain  of  love 

Stretches  to  her  home  above. 

Mother,  in  thy  bitter  grief 

Let  this  thought  bring  sweet  relief, 

Mother  of  an  angel  now — 

God  himself  hath  crowned  thy  brow 

With  the  thorns  the  Saviour  wore — 

Blessed  art  thou  evermore. 

Unto  him  thou  dost  resign 

A  portion  of  the  life  was  thine. 

"  Earth  to  earth  and  dust  to  dust," 
Sore  the  trial — sweet  the  trust, 
Father — thou  who  seest  death 
Eeaping  grain  at  every  breath, 
As  the  sickle  sharp  he  wields 
O'er  our  bloody  battle  fields, 
Murmur  not  that  now  he  weaves 
This  sweet  flower  amid  his  sheaves ; 
Taken  in  her  early  prime, 
Gathered  in  the  summer  time, 
Autumn's  blast  she  shall  not  know, 
Never  shrink  from  winter's  snow. 
Sharp  the  pang  which  thou  must  feel, 
Sharper  than  the  foeman's  steel, 
For  thy  fairest  flower  is  hid 
Underneath  the  coffin's  lid. 


472  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

O'er  her  grave  thou  dropst  no  tear  ; 
"Warrior  stern  must  thou  appear, 
Crushing  back  the  tide  of  grief 
Which  in  vain  demands  relief. 
Louder  still  thy  country  cries, 
At  thy  feet  it  bleeding  lies. 
And  before  the  patriot  now 
Husband,  father,  both  must  bow. 
But  unnumbered  are  thy  friends, 
And  from  many  a  home  ascends 
Earnest,  heartfelt  prayers  for  thee, 
"  As  thy  days  thy  strength  shall  be." 


TO    THE    BATTLE    FIELD    OF    S  H  A  K  P  S  B  U  R  G- 

BY   UEOLA.    (MRS.    LOTJLA   W.    ROGERS,   GEORGIA.) 

HUSH'D  was  the  inspiring  strain  of  martial  band, 

Which  late  had  waked  the  slumbering  hills  to  life ; 

No  deaf  ning  roar  fell  on  the  midnight  air — 

No  burnish'd  helmet  gleamed  upon  the  plain — 

But  o'er  the  blood-stained  battle-field  there  hung 

A  heavy,  funeral  pall.     How  I  heard 

The  murmuring  flow  of  Antietam, 

Whose  rolling  waves  were  crimson'd  with  the  blood 

Of  fallen  foe  ; — yet,  save  this  low,  sad  dirge 

No  sound  disturbed  the  calm  ; — for  Nature  slept, 

And  awful  seemed  the  stillness  brooding  o'er 


*  Special  contribution. 


A   DREAM   VISIT.  473 

That  spot,  where  Death  had  been  the  conqueror. 

Oh,  where,  I  cried, 

Is  the  promised  goal — the  bright,  grand  recompense 
Of  proud  Ambition;  and  the  radiant  beams 
Of  Glory  and  of  Fame  ?     The  flickering  light 
That  led  upon  our  soil  a  thirsty  horde 
To  bathe  their  hands  in  brothers'  blood,  and  feast 
On  gathered  spoils  ? 

Where  the  mighty  hosts — 
The  gallant  steeds  that  swept  at  early  dawn 
The  now  neglected  plain  !     Aye,  tell  me  where 
Those  shrinking  souls  that  at  the  judgment  seat 
Must  bear  a  record  of  this  day  ! 

A  groan 

Fell  on  my  ear — a  deep  heart-rending  groan, 
That  told  the  tale  more  touchingly  than  words. 

I  hied  me  to  the  spot  whence  came 
The  sound  of  woe  ;  and  there,  beyond  the  reach 
Of  help,  had  wandered  one  whose  wasting  breath 
Had  almost  sunk.     His  years  were  few  ;  and  on 
Thought  bore  me  to  our  own  brave  soldier-boy, 
"Whose  love-lit  smile  e'en  then  might  sleep  in  death. 

The  dark  and  wavy  hair 
That  fell  upon  his  marble  brow  was  red 
With  clotted  gore  ;  and  the  youthful  cheek 
A  mother's  lip  had  fondly  loved  to  press 
Was  blanched  with  suffering. 
Upon  his  breast  an  open  Bible  lay, 
Whose  holy  pages  guided  him  in  life, 
And  tenderly  would  lead  him  through  the  waves 
Of  Death's  deep  waters.     A  trembling  whisper 
Pell  upon  the  breeze ;  and  there  devoutly  kneeling 
I  faintly  caught  the  soldier's  song  : 


474  THE   SOUTHEEN  AMARANTH. 

"  I  am  dying !  slowly  dying, 
"Wave  our  banner  o'er  my  head, 

Let  its  radiant  folds  surround  me 
Though  my  heart  be  cold  and  dead. 

I  "  Tell  my  comrades  ne'er  to  waver 

In  the  glorious  work  begun  ; 
Onward  be  their  footsteps  ever, 
Onward  !  till  the  goal  is  won ! 

"  Tell  my  mother,  gently  tell  her, 
For  her  soul  is  widowed  now, 

That  I  ne'er  forgot  her  teaching, 
Or  the  solemn,  parting  vow  ; 

"  Tell  my  fond  and  loving  sisters, 
When  the  fire  around  me  rolled, 

That  their  hope-inspiring  voices 

Made  my  heart  grow  strong  and  bold. 

"  And  her,  oh,  tell  her  how  my  spirit, 
Breathed  for  her  its  latest  prayer, 

Ere  it  winged  its  wa}T  to  Heaven  : — 
May  we  greet  each  other  there  /" 

The  song  was  hush'd  ! — The  moonlight  softer  fell 
Upon  his  face,  and  close  beside  his  heart 
An  image  pure  and  fair  was  fondly  prest, 
Defying  Death  to  tear  their  souls  apart 
On  the  dream  spirit  bore 
My  wandering  footsteps,  ling'ring  oft  to  cheer 
In  this  broad  Aceldama,  the  wounded 
And  the  dying  I     And  here,  among  the  heaps 


A  DREAM  VISIT.  475 

Of  fallen  braves  was  one  who  nobly  led* 
His  comrades  to  the  charge,  and  fearless  held 
Aloft  his  colors,  though  four  had  perished  there. 
Alas  !  thou  too  my  gallant  kinsman,  there 
Hast  found  thy  resting-place  ;  thy  manly  form 
Was  foremost  in  the  van,  though  angels  breathed 
Thy  death-knell,  days  before.     In  slumbers  deep 
Thou  heard' st  the  om'nous  call,  and  dimly  viewed 
The  shadowy  land  of  Death.     Thy  brave  young  heart 
No  more  will  list  to  Glory's  bidding,  or  will  join 
The  shout  of  triumph  pealing  far  above 
When  Southern  soil  is  free  ! 

No  more  thy  smile 

May  cheer  with  joy  the  loved  at  home,  or  soothe 
Thy  young  wife,  whose  all  is  sacrificed 
Upon  her  country's  shrine  !     And  these,  oh  War, 
Are  victims  of  thy  power  !     Forms  tall  and  brave, 
With  manhood's  noblest  gifts — the  old  and  young 
Alike  are  thine.     From  home  and  friends  afar 
Here  too  the  sons  of  my  own  native  hills, 
Who  dream  of  fame  'neath  Upson's  beauteous  shades,. 
Lie  cold  and  dead !     No  pitying  angel  comes 
To  hush  the  strife,  and  one  by  one  they  fall 
Of  those  we  held  so  dear.     All-seeing  God, 
We  implore  thee  hear  the  helpless  cries  of  grief 
That  well  nigh  crush  our  aching  hearts  : — send  forth 
Thy  Holy  Spirit  o'er  our  bleeding  land  ; 
Oh,  send  the  war-clouds  from  our  trembling  gaze, 
And  with  the  New  Year  whisper — Peace  !     Be  still  I 

*  A  son  of  Judge  Bice,  of  Marietta,  Georgia. 


476  THE   SOUTHERN   AMABANTH. 


BY    ACCOMAC. 


MOUKNFULLY  the  bells  are  tolling, 
And  the  muffled  drums  are  rolling 
With  a  sad  and  dreary  echo, 
Through  Richmond's  crowded  street ; 
And  the  dead  march  slowly  pealing, 
On  the  solemn  air  now  stealing, 
Hushing  every  lightsome  feeling, 
Our  saddened  senses  greet ; 
And  a  look  of  settled  sorrow 
Is  on  every  face  we  meet. 

To  his  last,  long  home  they're  bearing 
One,  whose  many  deeds  of  daring, 
One,  whose  noble,  high-toned  spirit 
Has  endeared  him  to  us  all ; 
Now,  his  sleep  shall  know  no  waking, 
Now,  his  rest  shall  have  no  breaking, 
And  no  more,  amid  war's  thunders, 
Shall  his  soldiers  hear  his  call. 
He  has  laid  aside  his  armor, 
And  his  banner  is  his  pall ! 

But  his  deeds  will  never  slumber, 
For  we'll  ever  proudly  number 
Him  among  the  brave  who  perished 
Struggling  for  our  liberty ; 

1  Killed  at  Koanoke  Island,  February  8th,  1862. 


DEATH   OF   COL.    TEERY.  477 

And  Virginia,  when  she's  weeping 
O'er  the  sons  that  now  are  sleeping 
On  her  bosom,  shall  forget  not 
That  he  died  to  set  her  free ; 
And  graven  on  her  sacred  tablets 
Shall  his  name  forever  be. 


0»  t'k  ItoiJi  0f  €01 


BY  J.    K.    BABEICK,    KENTUCKY. 

THERE  is  a  wail 

As  if  the  voice  of  sadness  long  and  deep, 
Had  given  its  low  tones  to  the  Southern  gale, 

Sweeping  o'er  vale  and  steep, 

There  is  a  voice 

As  if  of  mingled  mourning  in  the  land, 
And  Nature,  stricken,  ceases  to  rejoice, 

As  if  at  griefs  command. 

There  is  a  grief 

As  if  of  hearts  that  were  unused  to  mourn, 
And  sighs  and  sorrow  fail  to  bring  relief 

To  those  that  thus  bemoan. 

There  is  a  tear. 

As  if  of  eyes  that  were  unused  to  tears — 
A  link  of  friendship  broken  that  was  dear — 

A  shadow  on  past  years. 

"The  gallant  commander  of  "The  Texas  Kangers,"  who  fell  at  th« 
battle  of  Green  Kiver,  in  defence  of  the  rights  and  liberties  of  Ken 
tucky,  his  native  State,  and  his  adopted  South. 


478  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

There  is  a  pall 

As  if  of  darkness  o'er  our  sun-land  spread, 
A  weight  of  weariness  and  grief  on  all — 

Who  mourn  the  heroic  dead. 

The  south  winds  moan, 

The  south  winds  murmur  in  a  plaintive  strain, 
The  south  winds  warble  in  a  saddened  tone, 

And  the  land  groans  with  pain. 

The  Lone  Star  shines 

Less  brilliant  in  her  glow  of  southern  skies 
Since  he,  the  idol  of  her  cherished  shrines, 

In  death's  cold  slumber  lies. 

Back  to  the  State 

That  gave  him  birth  his  spirit  bade  him  come 
To  share  the  peril  of  her  pending  fate, 

Far  from  his  chosen  home. 


There,  where  his  life 

First  coursed  the  channel  of  its  future  fame, 
He  fell,  the  foremost  in  the  deadly  strife, 

With  glory  to  his  name. 

Tho'  dead  to  earth, 

While  man  may  boast  that  he  is  not  a  slave 
Of  tyranny,  his  valor  and  his  worth 

The  tide  of  time  will  brave. 


Dear  unto  those 

To  whom  his  voice  in  battle  gave  command, 
Who,  now,  amid  the  terror  of  his  foes, 

Shall  head  that  gallant  band  ? 
Dear  to  the  State 


ASHBY.  479 

Of  his  adoption,  to  the  people  clear — 
Whose  cause  he  proudly  strove  to  illustrate, 

Who  now  shall  fill  his  sphere  ? 
GLASGOW,  KY.,  Dec.  18th,  1861. 


BY  JOHN  K.    THOMPSON. 

To  the  brave  all  homage  render  ! 

Weep  ye  skies  of  June  ! 
With  a  radiance  pure  and  tender, 
Shine,  oh,  saddened  moon ! 

"  Dead  upon  the  field  of  glory  /" 
Hero  fit  for  song  and  story — 
Lies  our  bold  dragoon  ! 

Well  they  learned  whose  hands  have  slain  him, 

Braver,   knightlier  foe 
Never  fought  with  Moor  nor  Paynim — 
Eode  at  Templestowe : 

With  a  mien  how  high  and  joyous, 
Gainst  the  hordes  that  would  destroy  us, 
Went  he  forth  we  know. 

Nevermore,  alas !  shall  sabre 
Gleam  around  his  crest — 
Fought  his  fight,  fulfilled  his  labor, 
Stilled  his  manly  breast — 

All  unheard  sweet  nature's  cadence, 
Trump  of  fame  and  song  of  maidens, 
Now  he  takes  his  rest 


480  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Earth  that  all  too  soon  has  bound  him, 

Gently  wrap  his  clay  ! 
Linger  lovingly  around  him, 
Light  of  dying  day ! 

Softly  fall  the  summer  showers, 
Birds  and  bees  among  the  flowers, 
Make  the  gloom  seem  gay  ! 

There,  throughout  the  coming  ages, 

When  his  sword  is  rust, 
And  his  deeds  in  classic  pages, 
Mindful  of  her  trust — 

Shall  Virginia  bending  lowly, 
Still  a  ceaseless  vigil  holy 
Keep  above  his  dust ! 


MRS.    MAKGABET  J.    PBESTON,    'VTBGINIA. 

HEARD  ye  that  thrilling  tone  ? 

Accent  of  dread ! 
Fall  like  a  thunderbolt, 

Bowing  each  head  ? 
Over  the  battle  dun — 
Over  each  booming  gun — 
AsJiby  our  bravest  one, 

Ashhy  is  dead  I 

Saw  ye  the  veterans  ? 

Hearts  that  had  known 
Never  a  quail  or  fear, 

Never  a  groan — 


DIRGE  FOE  ASHBY.  481 

Sob  'mid  the  fight  they  win, 
Tears  their  stern  eyes  within, 
Ashhy  our  Paladin, 
Asliby  is  dead! 

Dash,  dash  the  tear  away  ! 

Crush  down  the  pain  ! 
Duke  et  decus  he, 

Fittest  refrain. 

Why  should  the  dreary  pall 
Bound  him  be  flung  at  all  ? 
Did  not  our  hero  fall, 

Gallantly  slain  ? 
Catch  the  last  words  of  cheer 

Dropped  from  his  tongue  ! 
Over  the  volley's  din 

Let  them  be  rung ! 
Follow  me!  Follow  me  I 
Soldier,  oh  !  could  there  be 
Paean  or  dirge  for  thee 

Loftier  sung  ? 

Bold  as  the  Lion's  Heart — 

Dauntless  and  brave, 
Knightly  as  knightliest 
Sweet,  with  all  Sidney's  grace — • 
Tender  as  Hampden's  face, 
Who,  who  shall  fill  the  space 

Void  by  his  grave  ? 

'Tis  not  one  broken  heart, 

Wild  with  dismay — 
Crazed  in  her  agony — 

Weeps  o'er  his  clay  1 
Ah  !  from  a  thousand  eyes 


482  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

Flow  the  pure  tears  that  rise — 
Widowed  Virginia  lies 
Stricken  to-day ! 


Yet  charge  as  gallantly, 

Ye  whom  he  led  ! 
Jackson  the  victor,  still 

Stands  at  yonr  head  ! 
Heroes  !  be  battle  done 
Bravelier  every  one 
Nerved  by  the  thought  alone — 

Asliby  is  dead  I 


BY     OLD   FOGY. 


BEST,  soldier,  rest !  thy  sword  hath  won 

A  fadeless  wreath  of  glory  : 
Sleep  calmly,  for  thy  name  adorns 

Thy  country's  proudest  story. 

Virginia's  cause  was  but  thine  own, 

Whatever  fate  attend  her, 
In  peace,  to  share  her  glories  thine  ; 

In  war,  thine  to  defend  her. 

Aye,  foremost  in  the  bloody  fray 

Of  each  succeeding  rally ; 
The  boldest  warrior  of  his  day, 

The  Murat  of  the  Valley  I 


THE  BUEIAL  OF  LATAXE.  483 

•On  mountain  height,  o'er  dale  and  glen, 
Where'er  the  foe  dare  meet  them, 

There  Ashby  led,  and  Ashbj's  men 
Bushed  boldly  out  to  greet  them. 

Thy  form  hath  faded  from  our  sight, 

Thy  battle-shout  hath  ended  : 
But  with  thy  country's  glory  bright, 

Thine  own  great  fame  is  blended  I 

In  peace  or  war,  whate'er  betide, 

We'll  own  thy  gallant  bearing, 
And  Ashby  still  shall  be  our  pride, 

And  Ashby's  deeds  of  daring. 

Then,  soldier,  rest !  thy  sword  hath  won 

A  fadeless  wreath  of  glory  : 
Sleep  calmly,  for  thy  name  adorns 

Thy  country's  proudest  story. 
METKOPOLITAN  RECORD. 


BY   JOHN   K.    THOMPSON. 


THE  combat  raged  not  long,  but  ours  the  day  ; 

And  through  the  hosts  which  compassed  us  around 
Our  little  band  rode  proudly  on  its  way, 

Leaving  one  gallant  comrade,  glory  crowned, 
Unburied  on  the  field  he  died  to  gain, 
Single  of  all  his  men  amid  the  hostile  slain  I 


484  THE   SOUTHERN  AMAEANTH. 

One  moment  on  the  battle's  edge  he  stood, 
Hope's  halo  like  a  helmet  round  his  hair, 

The  next  beheld  him  dabbled  in  his  blood, 
Prostrate  in  death,  and  yet  in  death  how  fair. 

And  thus  he  passed  through  the  red  gate  of  strife, 

From  earthly  crowns  and  palms  to  an  immortal  life. 

*  *  *  #  w  •* 

A  brother  bore  his  body  from  the  field, 

And  gave  it  unto  stranger  hands,  that  closed 

The  calm  blue  eyes,  on  earth  forever  sealed, 
And  tenderly  the  slender  limbs  composed  : — 

Strangers,  yet  sisters,  who  with  Mary's  love, 

jSat  by  the  tomb,  and  weeping  looked  above. 

A  little  child  strewed  roses  on  his  bier — 
Pale  roses  not  more  stainless  than  his  soul, 

Nor  yet  more  fragrant  than  his  life  sincere, 

That  blossomed  with  good  actions, — brief  but  whole, 

The  aged  matron  and  the  faithful  slave 

Approached  with  reverent  feet  the  hero's  lowly  grave. 

v 

No  man  of  God  might  say  the  burial  rite 
Above  the  "  rebel  " — thus  declared  the  foe 

That  blanched  before  him  in  the  deadly  fight  ; 
But  woman's  voice,  in  accents  soft  and  low, 

Trembling  with  pity,  touched  with  pathos,  read 

O'er  his  hallowed  dust  the  ritual  for  the  dead. 

'Tis  sown  in  weakness,  it  is  raised  in  power," 

Softly  the  promise  floated  on  the  air, 
And  the  sweet  breathings  of  the  sunset  hour 

Came  back  responsive  to  the  mourner's  prayer  : 


THE  BURIAL    OF  LATANE  485 

Gently  they  laid  him  underneath  the  sod, 

And  left  him  with  his  fame,  his  country,  and  his  God. 

Let  us  not  weep  for  him  whose  deeds  endure, 
So  young,  so  brave,  so  beautiful  he  died  ; 

As  he  had  wished  to  die ; — the  past  is  sure 
Whatever  yet  of  sorrow  may  betide 

Those  who  still  linger  on  the  stormy  shore, 

Change  cannot  harm  him  now,  nor  fortune  touch  him 
more. 

And  when  Virginia,  leaning  on  her  spear, 

Victrix  et  vidua*  the  conflict  done, 
,'Shall  raise  her  mailed  hand  to  wipe  the  tear 

That  starts  as  she  recalls  each  martyred  son, 
No  prouder  memory  her  breast  shall  sway, 
Than  thine,  our  early  lost,  lamented  Latane  ! 

SOUTHERN  LITEEAEY  MESSENGER. 


jjitwrnw 

BY   JAMES   BARRON   HOPE. 

ALAS  !  he's  cold  ! 

Oold  as  the  marble  which  his  fingers  wrought — 
Cold  but  not  dead,  for  each  embodied  thought 
Of  his,  which  he  from  the  Ideal  brought 

To  live  in  stone, 
Assures  him  immortality  of  fame. 

*  The  beautiful  image  in  the  concluding  stanza  is  borrowed  (and 
.•some  of  the  language  is  versified)  from  the  eloquent  remarks  of  Hon. 
IB.  M.  T.  Hunter,  on  the  death  of  ex-President  Tyler. 


486  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH* 

Gait  is  not  dead — 

Only  too  soon 

We  saw  him  climb 

Up  to  Ms  pedestal, 

Where  future  time, 
And  coming  generations,  in  the  noon 
Of  his  full  reputation,  yet  shall  stand 
To  pay  their  homage  to  his  noble  name. 

Our  Poet  of  the  Quarries  only  sleeps  : 

He  cleft  his  pathway  up  the  future's  steeps 

And  now  rests  from  his  labors. 
Hence  'tis,  I  say 

For  him  there  is  no  death, 
Only  the  stopping  of  the  pulse  and  breath. 

But  simple  breath  is  not  the  all  in  all- 
Man  hath  it  but  in  common  with  the  brutes : — 
Life  is  in  action,  and  in  brave  pursuits. 
By  what  we  dream,  and  having  dreamt,  dare  do> 
We  hold  our  places  in  the  world's  large  view, 
And  still  have  part  in  the  affairs  of  men 
When  the  long  sleep  is  on  us. 

He  dreamt  and  made  his  dreams  perpetual  things*. 
Fit  for  the  rugged  cells  of  penitential  saints, 

Our  halls  of  sumptuous  kings, 
And  showed  himself  a  poet  in  his  art. 
He  chiselled  lyrics  with  a  touch  so  fine, 

With  such  a  tender  beauty  of  their  own* 
That  unset  songs  broke  out  from  every  line, 
And  verse  was  audible  in  voiceless  stone. 

His  Psyche,  soft  in  beauty  and  in  placid  grace, 
Waits  for  her  lover  in  the  western  breeze, 


SACKUM.  487 

And  a  rare  smile  irradiates  her  face, 

As  though  she  heard  him  whisper  in  the  trees. 

Bacchante,  with  her  vine-crowned  hair, 
Leaps  to  the  cymbal-measured  dance, 

"With  such  a  passion  in  her  air — 
Upon  her  brow — upon  her  lips — 
As  thrills  you  to  the  finger-tips, 

And  fascinates  your  glance. 

There  are,  as  'twere,  two  of  his  songs  in  stone — 

The  one,  full  of  the  tenderness  of  love, 
Speaking  of  moonrise  and  the  song-bird's  call  :— 
The  other  of  mad  laughter  and  the  tone 
Of  fatal  music,  on  whose  rise  and  fall 
Swift-footed  dancers  follow. 

Nobler  than  these 

Sweet  Lyrics,  dreams  dreamt  'neath  the  summer  trees, 
He  worked  some  Epic  studies  out  in  part, 
To  leave  them  incomplete,  his  chiefest  pain 
When  the  low  pulses  of  his  failing  heart 

Admonished  him  of  death. 
Aye !  he  had  soared  upon  a  lofty  wing 
"Wet  with  the  purple  and  uncrimsoned  rain 
Of  dreams  whose  clouds  had  floated  o'er  his  brain 

Until  it  ached  with  glories. 

If  you  would  see  the  Epic  studies,  go — 

Go  with  the  student  from  the  dim  arcade. 

Halt  where  the  Statesman  *  standeth  in  the  hall, 

*  His  Jefferson,  at  the  University  of  Virginia. 


488  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

And  mark  how  careless  voices  Imsli  and  fall, 
And  all  light  talk  to  sudden  pause  is  brought 
When  fronted  with  the  noble  type  of  thought 
He  shaped  from  pale  Carara. 

View  his  Columbus.     Hero  grand  and  meek, 
Scarred  in  the  battle's  long  protracted  brunt, 
Palos  and  Salvador  stamped  on  his  front — 
A  second  Atlas,  bearing  on  his  brow 
A  new  world  just  discovered. 

These  of  the  many,  but  they  are  enough — 
Enough  to  show  that  I  have  rightly  said, 
The  marble  snow  from  him  bids  back  decay — 
He  sleepeth  long,  but  sleeps  not  with  the  dead 
They  die  and  are  forgotten  ere  the  clay 
Heaped  over  them  hath  hardened  in  the  sun. 

This  much  of  Gralt  the  Artist  :— 

Of  the  man 
Fain  would  I  speak,  but  in  sad  sooth 

I  can 

Ne'er  find  the  words  wherein  to  tell 
How  he  was  loved,  or  yet  how  well 

He  did  deserve  it. 

All  things  of  beauty  were  to  him  delight — 
The  sunset's  clouds  the  turret  rent  apart, 
The  stars,  which  glitter  in  the  noon  of  night, 
Spoke  with  one  voice  unto  his  mind  and  heart — 
His  love  of  Nature  made  his  love  of  Art 

And  had  his  span 
Of  life  been  longer,  he  had  surely  done 


IN   MEAIORIAM.  489 


Such,  noble  things  that  he 
Like  to  a  soaring  eagle  would  have  been 
At  last  lost  in  the  sun. 


D.  J.  E. 

BY   KEY.    A.    J.    EYAK. 

YOUNG  as  the  youngest  who  donned  the  grey, 

True  as  the  truest  that  wore  it — 
Brave  as  the  bravest  he  marched  away, 
(Hot  tears  on  the  cheeks  of  his  mother  lay,) 
Triumphant  waved  our  Flag  one  day, 

He  fell  in  the  front  before  it. 

Firm  as  the  firmest  where  duty  led, 

He  hurried  without  a  falter — 
Bold  as  the  boldest  he  fought  and  bled, 
And  the  day  was  won — but  the  field  was  red, 
And  the  blood  of  his  fresh,  young  heart  was  shed 

On  his  country's  hallowed  altar. 

On  the  trampled  breast  of  the  battle-plain, 

Where  the  foremost  ranks  had  wrestled — 

On  his  pale,  pure  face,  not  a  mark  of  pain, 

(His  mother  dreams  they  will  meet  again,) 

The  fairest  form  amid  all  the  slain, 
Like  a  child  asleep — he  nestled. 

In  the  solemn  shades  of  the  woods  that  swept 

The  field  where  his  comrades  had  found  him— 


490  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

They  buried  him  there — and  the  big  tears  crept 
Into  strong  men's  eyes  that  had  seldom  wept, 
(His  mother,  God  pity  her ! — smiled  and  slept, 
Dreaming  her  arms  were  around  him.) 
»##»*•» 

A  grave  in  the  woods,  with  the  grass  o'ergrown, 

A  grave  in  the  heart  of  his  mother — 
His  clay  in  the  one  lies  lifeless  and  lone ; 
There  is  not  a  name,  there  is  not  a  stone — 
And  only  the  voice  of  the  winds  maketh  moan 
O'er  the  grave  where  never  a  flower  is  strewn — 

But  his  memory  lives  in  the  other. 
SOUTHERN  SOCIETY,  BALTIMOEE. 


A     TRIBUTE. 

BY   JOHN   E.    HATCHEE. 

will  not  wander  to  the  gloomy  years 
Through  whose  dark  scenes  we  have  so  lately  passed^ 
Where  no  soft  beam  of  golden  light  appears, 
To  gild  the  clouds  of  sorrow  o'er  them  cast. 

Those  things  are  but  a  solitude  of  graves, 

Where  Love  and  Memory  pour  their  tears  like  rain, 

And  where,  in  voiceless  grief,  the  cypress  waves, 
Above  the  hearts,  which  for  us  die  in  vain. 

The  dead  who  died,  as  died  that  gallant  -throng, 
To  shield  a  cause  which  in  their  eyes  was  just, 


OUR   NOBLE   DEAD.  491 

Shall  live  enshrined  in  story  and  in  song 
While  ages  roll  above  their  scattered  dust 

What  though  for  them  no  marble  shaft  shall  rise? 

Time  shall  not  see  their  sacred  memory  wane : 
Their  scroll  of  Fame,  expansive  as  the  skies, 

Years  of  oblivion  shall  corrode  in  vain. 

Heroic  deeds  are  deathless,  and  they  live 
Unmarred  while  empires  crumble  into  dust ; 

They  master  fame  and  life,  and  glory  give 
To  storied  urn,  and  animated  dust. 

There  rose  no  sculptured  monument  to  tell 
Where  Spartan  valor  broke  the  Persian  sway, 

And  yet  we  know  there  nobly  fought  and  fell 
Heroic  men  in  "  Old  Platea's  day." 

Peace  to  the  ashes  of  our  noble  dead, 
For  distant  eyes  shall  behold  each  name, 

Brightening  like  morning  when  the  night  is  fled, 
And  ever  broadening  on  the  disc  of  fame. 

Farewell !  ye  high  heroic  hearts,  farewell ! 

Inspired  lips  shall  teach  the  world,  ere  long, 
Ye  fought  to  hallow  story,  and  ye  fell 

To  give  a  new  apocalypse  to  song  I 
NEW  YORK  FREEMAN'S  JOURNAI* 


492  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 


fkMfttg  tfe  gift. 

"Is  there  any  news  of  the  war?"  she  said. 
"  Only  a  list  of  the  wounded  and  dead," 

Was  the  man's  reply, 

Without  lifting  his  eye. 
"  'Tis  the  very  thing  I  want,"  she  said ; 
<k  Eead  me  a  list  of  the  wounded  and  dead." 

He  read  the  list — 'twas  a  sad  array 

Of  the  wounded  and  killed  in  the  fatal  fray ; 

In  the  very  midst  was  a  pause  to  tell 

That  his  comrades  asked :  "  Who  is  he,  pray  ?" 

"  The  only  son  of  the  Widow  Gray," 

Was  the  proud  reply 

Of  his  captain  nigh. 
What  ails  the  woman  standing  near  ? 
Her  face  has  the  ashen  hue  of  fear. 

"  Well,  well,  read  on ;  is  he  wounded  ?  quick  I 
Oh,  God !  but  my  heart  is  sorrow  sick  !" 
"  Is  he  wounded  ?"     "  No  !  he  fell,  they  say, 
Killed  outright  on  that  fatal  day !" 
But  see,  the  woman  has  swooned  away  ! 

Sadly  she  opened  her  eyes  to  the  light  ; 
Slowly  recalled  the  events  of  the  fight ; 
Faintly  she  murmured — ''  Killed  outright  I 
It  has  cost  me  the  life  of  my  only  son, 
But  the  battle  is  fought  and  the  victory  won ; 
The  will  of  the  Lord,  let  it  be  done." 


STONEWALL  JACKSON?S   WAY.  493 

God  pity  the  cheerless  Widow  Gray, 
And  send  from  the  halls  of  Eternal  Day 
The  light  of  his  peace  to  illume  her  way  ! 


timiwatl  f 


COME,  stack  arms,  men,  pile  on  the  rails, 

Stir  up  the  camp-fires  bright, 
No  matter  if  the  canteen  fails, 

We'll  make  a  roaring  night  ! 
Here  Shenandoah  brawls  along, 

There  lofty  Blue  Eidge  echoes  strong 
To  swell  the  brigade's  rousing  song 

Of  '•  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way  I" 

We  see  him  now  —  the  old  slouched  hat, 

Cocked  o'er  his  eye  askew  ; 
The  shrewd  dry  smile,  —  the  speech  so  pat  — 

So  calm,  so  blunt,  so  true. 
The  "  Blue  Light  Elder  "  kaows  them  well, 
Says  he—"  That's  Banks—  he's  fond  of  shell, 
Lord  save  his  soul  !  we'll  give  him  -  "  well, 

That's  "Stonewall  Jackson's  Way." 

Silence  !  ground  arms  !  kneel  all  !  caps  off  I 

Old  Blue  Light's  going  to  pray. 
Strangle  the  fool  that  dares  to  scoff! 

Attention  !  it's  his  way  ! 
Appealing  from  his  native  sod 

In  forma  pauperis  to  God  — 
Lay  bare  thine  arm,  stretch  forth  thy  rod  — 

Amen  !  that's  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way  I" 


494:  THE   {SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

He's  in  the  saddle  now  !  fall  in  I 

Steady  !  the  whole  brigade  ! 
Hill's  at  the  ford  cut  off!     We'll  win 

His  way  out,  ball  and  blade. 
"What  matter  if  our  shoes  are  worn  ? 
What  matter  if  our  feet  are  torn  ? 
Quick  step  1  we're  with  him  ere  the  morn  1 

That's  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  Way !" 

The  sun's  bright  glances  rout  the  mists 

Of  morning — and  by  George  ! 
There's  Longstreet  struggling  in  the  lists, 

Hemmed  in  an  ugly  gorge. 
Pope  and  his  columns,  whipped  before. 

"  Bay 'nets  and  grape  i"  hear  Stonewall  roar ; 
"  Charge,  Stewart !" — "  pay  off  Ashby's  score  T 

Is  "Stonewall  Jackson's  Way!" 

Ah  !  maiden,  wait  and  watch  and  yearn 

For  news  of  Stonewall's  band, 
Ah !  widow,  read  with  eyes  that  burn, 

That  ring  upon  your  hand ! 
Ah !  wife,  sew  on,  pray  on,  hope  on, 
Thy  life  shall  not  be  all  forlorn, 
The  foe  had  better  ne'er  been  born 

Than  get  in  "  Stonewall's  Way  1" 

SOUTHEKN  ILLTTSTKATED  NEWS. 


STONEWALL   JECKSON.  495 


BY  PAUL  H.    HAYNE. 


THE  fashions  and  the  forms  of  men  decay, 
The  seasons  perish,  the  calm  sunsets  die, 
Ne'er  with  the  same  bright  pomp  of  cloud  or  ray 
To  flush  the  golden  pathways  of  the  sky ; 
All  things  are  lost  in  dread  Eternity — 
States,  Empires,  Creeds,  the  Lay 
Of  master  Poets,  even  the  shapes  of  Love, 
Bear  ever  with  them  an  invisible  Shade, 
"Whose  name  is  Death  ;  we  cannot  breathe  nor  move, 
But  that  we  touch  the  Darkness,  till,  dismayed, 
We  feel  the  imperious  Shadow  freeze  our  hearts, 
And  mortal  Hope  grows  pale,  and  fluttering  Life  de 
parts  ! 

II. 

All  things  are  lost  in  dread  Eternity, 

Save  that  majestic  VIRTUE  which  is  given 

Once,  twice,  perchance,  beneath  our  earthly  Heaven, 

To  some  great  soul  in  ages.     Oh !  the  lie, 

The  base,  incarnate  lie  we  call  the  World, 

Shakes  at  his  coming,  as  the  forest  shakes, 

When  mountain  storms,  with  bannered  clouds  unfurled, 

Kush  down  and  rend  it ;  sleek  Convention  drops 

Its  glittering  mask,  and  hoary,  cobwebbed  rules 

Of  petty  charlatans  or  insolent  fools 

Shrink  to  annihilation — Truth  awakes, 


496  THE    SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

A  morning  splendor  in  her  fearless  eyes, 

Touching  the  delicate  stops 
Of  some  rare  lute  which  breathes  of  promise  fair, 

Or  pouring  on  the  covenanted  air 
A  trumpet  blast  which  startles,  but  makes  strong, 

While  ancient  Wrong, 
Driven  like  a  beast  from  his  deep-caverned  lair, 

Grows  gaunt,  and  inly  quakes, 
Knowing  that  Eetribution  draws  so  near  1 

III. 

Whether  with  blade,  or  pen, 

Toil  these  immortal  men, 
There's  is  the  Light  supreme,  which  Genius  wed 

To  a  clear  spiritual  dower, 
Hath  ever  o'er  the  aroused  Nations  shed 

Joy,  faith,  and  power  ; 

Whether  from  wrestling  with  the  God-like  Thought, 
They  launch  a  noiseless  blessing  on  mankind, 
Or  thro'  wild  streams  of  terrible  carnage  brought, 

No  longer  crushed  and  blind, 

Trampled,  dishevelled  gored, 
They  proudly  lift,  where  kindling  soul  and  eye 
May  feast  upon  her  beauty  as  she  stands, 
(Girt  by  the  strength  of  her  invincible  bands,) 
And  freed  through  keen  redemption  of  the  sword — 
Thy  worn,  but  radiant  form,  victorious  Liberty  ! 

IV. 

We  bow  before  this  grandeur  of  the  spirit ; 

We  worship  and  adore 
God's  image,  burning  through  it  ever  more  ; 
And  thus,  in  awed  humility  to-night, 


STONEWALL  JACKSON.  497 

As  those  wlio  at  some  vast  Cathedral  door 
Pause  with  hushed  faces,  purified  desires, 

We  contemplate  His  merit, 
Who  lifted  Failure-  to  the  heights  of  Fame, 
And  by  the  side  of  fainting,  dying  Eight, 
Stood,  as  Sir  Galahad  pure.  Sir  Launcelot  brave, 

The  quick,  indignant  fire 

Flushing  his  pale  brow  from  the  passionate  mind 
No  strength  could  quell,  no  sophistry  could  blind, 
Until  that  moment,  big  with  mystic  doom, 

(Whose  issue  sent 

O'er  the  long  wastes  of  half  a  Continent 
Electric  shudders  through  the  deepening  gloom,) 
When  in  his  knightly  glory,  "Stonewall  "  fell, 
And  all  our  hearts  sank  with  him  ;  for  we  knew 
Our  staff,  our  bulwark  broken,  the  fine  clew 
To  Freedom  snapped,  his  hand  had  held  alone, 
Through  all  the  storms  of  battle  overblown — • 
Lost,  buried,  mouldering  in  our  Hero's  grave. 

y. 

0  Soul !  so  simple,  yet  sublime  I 

With  faith  as  large,  and  mild 
As  that  of  some  benignant,  trustful  child, 
Who  mounts  to  Heaven  on  bright,  ethereal  stairs 

Of  tender- worded  prayers — 
Yet  strong  as  if  a  Titan's  force  were  there 
To  rise,  to  act,  to  suffer,  and  to  dare — 

0  Soul !  that  on  our  Time 
Wrought,  in  the  calm  magnificence  of  power 
To  ends  so  noble,  that  an  antique  light 
Of  grace  and  virtue  streamed  along  thy  way, 

Until  the  direst  Lour 


498  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

Of  carnage  caught  from  that  immaculate  ray 

A  Consecration,  and  a  Sanctity  ! 
Thou  art  not  dead,  thou  never  more  cans't  die, 

But  wide  and  far,  * 

Where'er  on  Christian  realms  the  Morning  Star 
Flames  'round  the  spires  that  tower  towards  the  sky- 

Thy  name,  a  household  word, 
In  cottage  homes,  by  palace  walls  is  heard. 
Breathed  with  low  murmnrs,  reverentially  ! 

VI 

Even  as  I  raise  this  faltering  song  to  One, 

Who  now  beyond  the  empires  of  the  Sun, 

Looks  down  perchance  upon  our  mournful  sphere, 

With  the  deep  pity  of  seraphic  eyes, 

Fancy  unveils  the  Future,  and  I  see 

Millions  on  millions,  as  year  follows  year, 

Gather  around  our  warrior's  place  of  rest 

In  the  green  shadows  of  Virginian  hills ; 

Not  with  the  glow  of  martial  blazonry, 

With  trump  and  muffled  drum, 

Those  pilgrim  millions  come, 

But  with  bowed  head,  and  measured  footsteps  slow, 
As  those  who  near  the  presence  of  a  shrine, 

And  feel  an  air  divine, 

All  round  about  them  blandly,  sweetly  blow, 
While  like  dream-music  the  faint  fall  of  rills, 

Lapsing  from  steep  to  steep, 

The  wood-dove  'plaining  in  her  covert  deep, 
And  the  long  whisperings  of  the  ghostly  Pine, 
(Like  ocean  breathings  born  from  tides  of  sleep,) 
With  every  varied  melody  expressed 
In  Nature's  score  of  solemn  harmonies, 


STONEWALL  JACKSON.  499 

131ends  with  a  feeling  in  the  reverent  breast, 
Which  cannot  find  a  voice  in  mortal  speech, 
So  deep,  so  deep  it  lies  beyond  the  reach 
Of  stammering  words — the  Pilgrims  only  know 
That  slumbering,  O  !  so  calmly  there,  below 
The  dewy  grass,  the  melancholy  trees, 

Moulders  the  dust  of  HIM, 

By  whose  crystalline  fame,  earth's  scarlet  pomps  grow 
dim, 

The  crowned  heir 

Of  TWO  majestic  immortalities, 
That  which  is  earthly,  and  yet  scarce  of  earth, 

Whose  fruitful  seeds 

Were  his  own  grand,  self-sacrificing  deeds, 
And  that  whose  awful  birth 

Flowed  into  instant  perfectness  sublime, 

When  done  with  toil  and  time, 
He  shook  from  off  the  raiments  of  his  soul. 
The  weary  conflict's  desecrating  dust, 
For  stern  reveilles,  heard  the  angels  sing, 
For  battle  turmoils  found  eternal  calm, 
Laid  down  his  stainless  sword  to  clasp  the  palm, 
And  where  vast  heavenly  organ-notes  outroll 
Melodious  thunders,  'mid  the  rush  of  wing, 
And  flash  of  plume  celestial,  paused  in  peace, 
A  rapture  of  ineffable  release 
To  know  the  long  fruition  of  the  Just  I 

LADIES'  HOME. 


500  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


BY  HAKRY  L.  FLASH,  ALABAMA. 

NOT  midst  the  lightning  of  the  stormy  fight, 
Nor  in  the  rush  upon  the  vandal  foe, 
Did  Kingly  Death,  with  his  resistless  might, 
Lay  the  great  leader  low. 

His  warrior  soul  his  earthly  shackles  broke 
In  the  full  sunshine  of  a  peaceful  town, 
When  all  the  storms  was  hushed,  the  oak 

That  propped  our  cause  went  down. 

Though  his  alone  the  blood  that  flecks  the  ground, 
Eecalling  all  his  grand  heroic  deeds, 
Freedom  herself  is  writhing  in  the  wound, 
And  all  the  country  bleeds. 

He  entered  not  the  nation's  Promised  Land, 
At  the  red  belching  of  the  cannon's  mouth, 
But  broke  the  House  of  Bondage  with  his  hand — 
The  Moses  of  the  South ! 

O  gracious  God  !  not  gainless  in  the  loss : 
A  glorious  sunbeam  gilds  thy  sternest  frown  ; 
And  while  his  country  staggers  'neath  the  Cross, 
He  rises  with  the  Crown  ! 

May  Wtn,  1863. 


MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JACKSON.  501 


A     SONNET. 

MRS.  MAEGARET  J.  PRESTON. 

THANK  God  for  such  a  hero !    Fearless,  bold 
His  diamond  character  beneath  the  sun, 
And  brighter  scintillations,  one  by  one, 

•Come  flashing  from  it.     Never  knight  of  old 

Wore  on  serener  brow,  so  calm,  yet  bold, 
Diviner  courage  :  never  martyr  knew 

'Trust  more  sublime, — nor  patriot  zeal  more  true, — 

Nor  saint,  self-abnegation  of  a  mould 

Touched  with  profounder  beauty.     .     All  the  rare, 

'Clear,  starry  points  of  light,  that  gave  his  soul 
Such  lambent  lustre,  owned  but  one  sole  aim, — 
Not  for  himself,  nor  yet  his  country's  fame, 

These  glories  shone ;  he  kept  the  clustered  whole 
A  jewel  for  the  crown  that  Christ  shall  wear! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  GENEKAL  STONEWALL  JACKSON. 

BY    "THE  EXILE." 

AYE  !  toll  I  toll !  toll ! 

Toll  the  funeral  bell, 
And  let  its  mournful  echoes  roll 
.From  sphere  to  sphere,  from  pole  to  pole, 
O'er  the  flight  of  the  greatest  and  kingliest  soul 

That  ever  in  battle  felL 


502  THE    SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Yes,  weep  !  weep !  weep  ! 

Weep  for  the  hero  fled ! 
For  Death  the  greatest  of  soldiers,  at  last 
Hath  over  our  leader  his  black  pall  cast, 
And  from  us  his  noble  form  hath  passed 

To  the  home  of  the  mighty  dead. 

Then  toll !  and  weep !  and  mourn  1 

Mourn  the  fall  of  the  brave, 

For  Jackson,  whose  deeds,  made  the  nation  proud^ 
At  whose  very  name  the  enemy  cowed 
"With  the  "  crimson  cross,"  for  his  martial  shroud,. 

Now  sleeps  his  long  sleep  in  the  grave. 

His  form  has  passed  away  ! 

His  voice  is  silent  and  still ; 
No  more  at  the  head  of  "  the  Old  Brigade," 
The  daring  men  who  were  never  dismayed, — 
Will  he  lead  them  to  glory  that  never  will  fade,, 

Stonewall  of  the  Iron-  Will. 

He  fell  as  a  hero  should  fall ! 

Mid  the  thunder  of  war  he  died ! 
While  the  rifle  cracked  and  the  cannon  roared, 
And  the  blood  of  the  friend,  and  the  foeman  poured^ 
He  dropped  from  his  nerveless  grasp  the  sword, 

That  erst  was  the  nation's  pride. 

Virginia,  his  mother,  is  bowed  ! 

Her  tread  is  heavy  and  slow  ! 
From  all  the  South  comes  a  wailing  moan, 
And  mountains  and  valleys  re-echo  the  groan, 
For  the  gallant  chief  of  her  clans  has  flown, 

And  a  nation  is  filled  with  woe  ! 


STONEWALL  JACKSON.  503 

Eest,  warrior!   rest! 

Eest  in  thy  laureled  tomb  ! 

Thy  memory  shall  live  through  all  of  earth's  years, 
And  thy  name  shall  excite  the  despot's  fears, 
While  o'er  thee  shall  fall  a  nation's  tears, 

Thy  deeds  shall  not  perish  in  gloom  ! 
RICHMOND  SENTINEL. 


MOETALLY     WOUNDED. 
"  The  Brigade  must  not  know,  sir." 

WHO'VE  ye  got  there?"  —  "  Only  a  dying  brother, 

Hurt  in  the  front,  just  now." 
"  Good  bov,  he'll  do.     Somebody  tell  his  mother 

Where  he  was  killed,  and  how." 

"  Whom  have  you  there  ?"     "A  crippled  courier,  major, 

Shot  by  mistake,  we  hear. 

He  was  with  Stonewall."     "  Cruel  work  they've  made 
here; 

Quick  with  him  to  the  rear  !" 

"Well,  who  comes  next?"     "  Doctor,  speak  low,  speak 

low,  sir; 

Don't  let  the  men  find  out 
It's  Stonewall  !"  "  God  !"  '"  The  brigade  must  not  know, 

now  sir, 
While  there's  a  foe  about  !" 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


504  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

Whom  have  you  here,  shrouded  in  martial  manner, 
Crowned  with  a  martyr's  charm? 

A  grand  dead  hero,  in  a  living  banner 
Born  of  his  heart  and  arm : 

The  heart  whereon  his  cause  hung — see  how  clingeth 

That  banner  to  his  bier ! 
The  arm  wherewith  his  cause  struck — hark  1  how  ringeth 

His  trumpet  in  their  rear ! 

What  have  we  left  ?     His  glorious  inspiration 

His  prayers  in  council  met, 
Living,  he  laid  the  first  stones  of  a  nation ; 

And  dead,  he  builds  it  yet 


THE  city  stirs  this  morn  ; 
From  careless  or  from  eager  lips  there  floats 
A  rumor  onward  through  the  crowded  streets, 

Of  one  to  burial  borne — 

A  man  of  heroic  mould. 

And  yet  the  starred  flag  in  the  dim,  closed  air, 
Floats  at  its  highest.     In  the  shut  house  of  prayer, 

No  passing  bell  is  tolled, 
And  men  move  on  as  yesterday,  nor  deem 
Their  words,  my  burning  tears,  have  but  one  bitter  theme, 

For  he  is  gone  ! 

Gone  in  the  bright  meridian  of  his  fame  I 
Gone,  with  his  words  of  power,  his  soul  of  flame ! 


STONEWALL    JACKSON.  505 

And  I  live  on, 

Groaning  that  I  should  live, 
That  all  the  worthless  thousands  round  me,  those 
Who  were, — but  dared  not  prove  themselves  his  foes, 

Death's  malice  shouts  reprieve  ; 
And  he,  the  victor  chief,  even  on  that  day 
"Which  he  made  glorious,  yields,  subdued  to  its  dark 

sway  ! 

Oh,  can  it  be  that  name 

That  brought  such  cheer  to  the  desponding  heart, 
Forcing  the  woe-closed  lips  in  smiles  apart, 

Whose  lightest  whisper  came 

Live  thoughts  of  Heaven's  suspended  wrath, 
Swift,  unexpected,  to  the  despot  THREE 
Quailing  by  the  Potomac  ;  can  it  be, 

That  on  the  crowded  path, 
Whereon  he  now  is  borne,  that  name  is  known, 
A  synonym  of  woe  to  those  he  loved,  alone  ? 

Still  hostile  watchfires  glow 
Upon  his  native  soil,  still  the  artillery's  roar 
Is  nightly  heard  on  Rappahannock's  shore ; 

And  the  ungenerous  foe 

Still  doth  our  captive  cities  sway  : 
But  oh !  no  more,  no  more  shall  he  arise 
Before  the  morning  star  is  in  the  skies, 

And  ere  the  night  of  day 

Bring  down  to  naught  the  invader's  lying  boast, 
Offering  himself  and  his,  one  fiery  holocaust 

Forgive,  forgive,  oh  Lord  ! 
If  to  the  living  ingrate  as  unjust, 
There  lurks  in  my  sad  speech  that  weak  distrust 


506  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

±Jy  him  1  mourn,  abhorred  : 

Not  such,  not  such  the  wail 
That  rises  from  his  own  loved  land  to-day- 
He  was  their  pride,  their  hope — Thou,  Lord,  their  stay  : 

Nor  wilt  thou  fail 

To  raise  for  them,  even  in  this  hour  of  blight, 
A  warrior  like  to  him,  as  strong,  as  sure  to  smite  I 


We  bless  thee,  Lord,  for  him 
Who,  in  a  day  of  cold  and  sordid  vice, 
Held  out  against  the  world,  this  proud  device — 

"  Fidelity  supreme  /" 

Even  in  this  •mammon  hold, 
Men  honor  him,  proclaim  with  loftier  crest, 
Faith,  Loyalty, — despite  the  cynic's  jest, 

Things  real  are  as  gold, 

And  feel  the  age  which  their  lost  aims  defile, 
Brightening  in  his  pure  fame,  become  less  base,  less 

vile ! 

Take  him  Virginia,  to  thy  soil, 
Now  more  than  ever  sacred  ;  guard  his  dust, 
Ye  generations,  as  a  sacred  trust, 

Till  hushed  in  earth's  turmoil, 
The  loved,  the  venerated  ; 
Let  them  repose,  where  by  Shenandoah's  flood, 
A  red  Asperges  of  young  Southern  blood 

His  grave  has  consecrated  I 

Where  sleep  they  well  'neath  many  a  grassy  heap, 
Who  shared  on  earth   his  deeds,  his  grand  compan 
ionship. 


STONEWALL  JACKSON.  507 

The  weak  heart  throbs 

To  think  how  great  we  would  have  made  him  ;  now 
A  dirge,  this  little  rood  of  globe,  the  flow 

Of  woman's  tears,  and  strong  man's  sobs 

Are  all  that  we  can  give. 

Vain  murmurer  !  End  thy  plaints  !  when  all  of  these 
Who  mourn  his  fate,  the  merest  memories 

Have  ceased  for  aye  to  live, 
It  shall  be  told,  while  earth  is  man's  abode, 
How  the  great  soul,  to  which  all  corning  time 
Made  Stonewall  Jackson's  name  a  sound  sublime, 

Went  on  its  way  to  God. 


BY  VIRGINIA  MADISON. — (s.    A.   BROCK). 

Daring  the  session  of  1862  and  '63,  the  Confederate  Congress  passed  a  reso 
lution  to  adopt  for  the  banner  of  the  Southern  Confederacy,  instead  of  the 
"  Stars  and  Bars,1'  the  "  Cross  of  St.  Andrew,"— a  saltier  of  eleven  stars  on  a 
ribbon  of  blue  and  ground  of  red,  the  field  of  the  flag  being  white.  General 
Stonewall  Jackson  died  on  the  10th  of  May,  1863.  The  first  use  made  of  th& 
new  flag,  was  for  his  PALL. 

BENEATH  the  Hope-born  "  Stars  and  Bars," 

That  lit  the  world  with  glory, 
And  gave  to  History's  classic  page 

New  theme  for  song  and  story — 
He  towered  aloft  like  comet  bright, 

All  glowing  in  mid-heaven, 
Then  sank,  as  might  the  noonday  sun, 

Before  had  come  the  even'. 


508  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

Fame  bowed  to  him  her  crested  head, 

And  with  her  laurels  bound  him  ; 
While  Honor's  bright  and  fadeless  wreath 

Of  gems  immortelle  crowned  him  : 
Yictory  upon  his  helmet  perched, 

Where'er  his  glances,  beaming, 
Fell  o'er  the  raging  storm  of  strife, 

That  flashed  with  armor's  gleaming  : 

We  dared  to  think,  with  pagan  thought, 

He  scarcely  could  be  mortal — 
That  Death  for  him  would  ne'er  unclose 

Its  dark  and  fearful  portal ; 
But  in  the  zenith's  glorious  height, 

His  star,  when  brightest  shining, 
Went  out !  in  total  darkness  quenched ! 

Without  a  ray's  declining. 

We  saw  him  lying  cold  and  still, 

In  Death's  embrace — so  calmly ; 
And  on  his  star-crossed,  snowy  pall, 

Our  briny  tears  fell  warmly  : 
Ah !  we  had  prayer  'twould  be  baptized, 

With  his  firm  hand  sustaining, 
He,  sponsor  in  the  holy  cause 

That  Eight  was  brave  maintaining ; — 

For  never  yet,  'bove  battle's  blast, 
Had  waved  this  proud  labarum  ; 

Never,  this  child  of  Faith  and  Hope, 
Had  thrilled  to  war's  alarum ; 

Had  ne'er  been  pierced  with  shell  or  ball, 
This  emblematic  cluster  ; 


STONEWALL   JACKSON'S   PALL.  509 

No  stain  of  life-blood  yet  had  marred 
Its  glistening,  snowy  lustre. 

He  looked  so  like  a  babe  asleep — 

A  smile  his  features  lighting, 
Nor  recked  he  that  a  sullen  cloud 

Our  Cause  was  slow  benighting  ; — 
The  dreamless  sleep  that  knows  no  morn, 

Alas !  too  surely  bound  him, 
He  lay,  unconscious  of  our  woe — 

The  new-born  flag  around  him  ! 

'  Twas  meet !  for  he  the  Cross  had  borne 

On  many  a  hard-fought  battle, — 
And  every  breath  had  raised  a  prayer 

Above  War's  wildest  rattle  : 
Unto  the  Cross,  with  childlike  faith, 

He  looked  for  help — salvation — 
And  his  mute  lips  then  gave  the  kiss 

Of  holy  consecration ! 


Did  ever  banner  have  before 

Such  glorious,  grand  baptism  ? 
"Was  ever  standard-sheet  anoint 

With  such  immortal  chrism  ? 
'  Twas  Jackson's  blood  first  stained  its  folds — 

Oh  !  gracious  exaltation  ! 
And  gave  his  pall  unto  the  world — 

The  Banner  of  his  nation. 

That  pall  ? — 'tis  furled,  no  more  to  wave 
O'er  hearts  that  "hailed  it  gladly," 


510  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

O'er  hearts  that  loved  it  wildly  well, 
That  loved  it — fiercely,  madly — 

But  all  adown  the  steps  of  Time, 
Though  tattered,  grimed,  and  gory, 

'Twill  live  in  records  of -the  Past, 
An  Oriflamme  of  Glory ! 


SUSAN   ARCHER   TALLY. 

I  SEE  the  broad,  red,  setting  sun 

Sink  slowly  down  the  sky  ; 
I  see,  amid  the  cloud-built  tents, 

His  blood-red  standard  fly  ; 
And  meek,  meanwhile,  the  pallid  moon 

Looks  from  her  place  on  high. 

Oh,  setting  sun,  awhile  delay ! 

Linger  on  sea  and  shore  ; 
Eor  thousand  eyes  now  gaze  on  thee, 
That  shall  not  see  thee  more ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  proudly  now, 

Whose  race,  like  thine,  is  o'er ! 

Oh,  ghastly  moon  !  thy  pallid  ray 

On  paler  brows  shall  lie ! 
On  many  a  torn  and  bleeding  heart, 

On  many  a  glazing  eye  ; 
And  breaking  hearts  shall  live  to  mourn, 

For  whom  'twere  bliss  to  die  ! 


STONEWALL  JACKSON.  511 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LIEUT.    GEN.   JACKSON. 

BY  MRS.  CATHERINE  A.  WARFLELD,  KENTUCKY. 

Go  to  thy  rest,  great  chieftain, 

In  the  zenith  of  thy  fame, 
"With  the  proud  heart  stilled  and  frozen, 

No  foeman  e'er  could  tame  ; 
With  the  eye  that  met  the  battle, 

As  the  eagle's  meets  the  sun, 
Ray  less  beneath  its  marble  lid, 

Repose,  thou  mighty  one ! 

Yet  ill  our  cause  could  spare  thee, 

And  'neath  the  blow  of  fate, 
That  struck  its  staunchest  pillar 

From  'neath  our  dome  of  State. 
Of  thee  as  of  the  Douglass, 

We  say  with  Scotland's  king, 
"  There  is  not  one  to  take  his  place 

In  all  the  mighty  ring  1" 

Thou  wert  the  noblest  captain 

Of  all  that  martial  host, 
That  front  the  haughty  Northman, 

And  put  to  shame  his  boast ; 
Thou  wert  the  strongest  bulwark 

To  stay  the  tide  of  fight, 
The  name  thy  soldiers  gave  thee, 

Bore  witness  to  thy  might. 


512  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

That  name  was  worth  a  legion 

In  charge  or  battle  call, 
'Twas  joy  to  see  the  cravens  fly 

At  the  shouting  of  "  Stonewall  1" 
'Twas  pride  to  mark  thy  phalanx 

Sweep  onward  like  a  blast, 
That  clears  the  leaves  of  autumn 

From  the  forest,  fierce  and  fast 

'Twas  glory — 'twas  derision 

To  mark  the  bloody  rout, 
When,  as  signal  for  the  panic, 

The  Southern  yell  rang  out  ; 
And  thou,  oh,  mighty  leader, 

Breasting  the  battle's  van, 
Didst  seem  amid  the  sullen  roar, 

More  demi-god  than  man. 

Go,  warrior,  it  is  over, 

No  more  shall  bugle  note 
Arouse  thee,  stern  and  prayerful — 

Nor  banner  o'er  thee  float ; 
Nor  sound  of  shell  and  cannon, 

Make  music  to  thy  ear, 
In  the  sultry  tide  of  battle — • 

Thou  liest  on  thy  bier. 

"We  may  not  weep  above  thee, 

This  is  no  time  for  tears, 
Thou  would'st  not  brook  their  shedding, 

Oh  saint  among  thy  peers. 
Couldst  thou  look  from  yonder  Heaven, 

Above  us  smiling  spread, 


STONEWALL  JACKSON.  513 

Thou  would'st  not  have  us  paufie  for  grief, 
On  the  blood-stained  path  we  tread. 


Not  while  our  homes  in  ashes 

Lie  smouldering  on  the  sod, 
Not  while  our  houseless  women 

Send  up  wild  wails  to  God. 
Not  while  the  mad  fanatic 

Strews  ruin  in  his  track, 
Dare  any  Southron  give  the  rein 

To  feeling — and  look  back  I 

No,  still  the  cry  is  "  onward  /" 

This  is  no  time  for  tears, 
No,  still  the  word  is  "  vengeance  /" 

Leave  ruth  for  coming  years. 
"We  will  snatch  thy  glorious  banner 

From  thy  dead  and  stiffening  hand, 
(The  one  thy  foeman  spared  the  grave) 

And  bear  it  through  the  land. 

And  all  who  mark  it  streaming 

Oh !  soldier  of  the  cross  I 
Shall  gird  them  with  a  fresh  resolve 

Of  loyalty  for  loss. 
Whilst  thou,  enrolled  a  martyr, 

Thy  sacred  mission  shown, 
Shall  lay  the  record  of  our  wrongs 

Before  the  eternal  Throne  I 


THE  SOUTHERN  AMAKANTH. 


"About  half-past  one  o'clock,  lie  (Stonewall  Jackson)  was  told  that 
he  had  but  one  hour  to  live  ;  and  he  answered  again  feebly  but  firm 
ly,  'Very  good,  it  is  all  right.'  A  few  moments  before  he  died,  he 
cried  out  in  delirium,  '  Order  A.  P.  Hill  to  prepare  for  action !  Pass 

the  infantry  to  the  front  rapidly !     Tell  Major  Hawks ' then 

stopped,  leaving  the  sentence  unfinished.  Presently,  a  smile  of  in 
effable  sweetness  spread  itself  over  his  pale  face,  and  he  said  quietly, 
and  with  an  expression  as  if  of  relief,  '  Let  us  cross  over  the  river, 
and  rest  under  the  shade  of  the  trees  ;'  and  then  without  pain  or  the 
least  struggle,  his  spirit  passed  from  earth  to  the  God  who  gave  it." 

HUNTEB  MAGUTRE,  M.  D.* 

COME  let  us  cross  tlie  river  and  rest  beneath  the  trees, 
And  list  the  merry  leaflets  at  sport  with  every  breeze ; 
Our  rest  is  won  by  fighting  and  peace  awaits  us  there  ; 
Strange  that  cause  so  blighting,  produces  fruit  so  fair ! 

Come,  let  us  cross  the  river,  those  that  have  gone  before, 
Crushed  in  the  strife  for  freedom,  await  on  yonder 

shore ; 
So  bright   the  sunshine  sparkles,  so  merry  hums  the 

breeze, 

Come,  let  us  cross  the  river  and  rest  beneath  the  trees. 
Come,  let  us  cross  the  river,  the  stream  that  runs  so 

dark; 

"Pis  none  but  cowards  quiver,  so  let  us  all  embark. 
Come,  men  with  hearts  undaunted,  we'll  stem  the  tide 

with  ease, 
"We'll  cross  the  flowing  river,  and  rest  beneath  the  trees. 

*  Late  Medical  Director  of  Stonewall  Jackson's  command. 


OVER  THE   RIVER.  515 

Come,  let  us  cross  the  river,  the  dying  hero  cried, 
And  God,  of  life  the  giver,  then  bore  him  o'er  the  tide, 
Life's  wars  for  him  are  over,  the  warrior  takes  his  ease, 
"There,  by  the  flowing  river,  at  rest  beneath  the  trees. 


BY  E.    DE   MONDION. 


THE  camp  was  hushed,  the  midnight  passed, 

But  the  warriors  their  vigil  kept ; 
For  the  shadows  of  death  were  gathering  fast, 

O'er  the  couch  where  their  chieftain  slept 
In  dreams  he  welcomes  the  angel  guest, 

And  the  land  of  promise  sees ; 
"  Let  us  cross  over  the  river  and  rest 

Under  the  shade  of  the  trees  !" 

Oh  !  sorrowful  night  to  that  weary  host! 

For  the  warriors  knew  full  well 
That  the  brightest  hope  of  their  cause  was  lost, 

When  its  trusted  soldier  fell. 
For  victory  clave  to  the  legions  that  pressed 

Where  his  flag  waved  to  the  breeze — 
He  has  left  them  to  cross  the  river  and  rest 

Under  the  shade  of  the  trees. 

The  arm  unnerved — the  strong  heart  cold — • 

And  yet  the  task  undone  ! 
And  hushed  the  calm  clear  voice,  that  told 

How  battles  should  be  won  ! 


516  THE   SOUTHEBN  AMAKANTH. 

But  on  what  tomb  are  words  more  blest 
In  memory's  shrine,  than  these  ; 

"  Let  us  cross  over  the  river  and  rest 
Under  the  shade  of  the  trees  1" 


MBS.    MAKGAEET  J.    PBESTON. 

A  SIMPLE,  sodded  mound  of  earth, 

Without  a  line  above  it ; 
"With  only,  daily  votive  flowers 

To  prove  that  any  love  it ; 
The  token  flag  that  silently 

Each  breeze's  visit  numbers  ; 
Alone  keeps  martial  ward  above 

The  hero's  dreamless  slumbers. 

No  name?  no  record ?  ask  the  world; 
The  world  has  read  his  story,— 

If  all  its  annals  can  unfold 
A  prouder  tale  of  glory. 

If  ever  merely  human  life 
Hath  taught  diviner  moral ; 

If  ever  round  a  worthier  brow- 
Was  twined  a  purer  laurel 

Humanity's  responsive  heart 

Concedes  his  wondrous  powers  ; 
And  pulses  with  a'  tenderness 


STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  GRAVE.  517 

Almost  akin  to  ours  ; 
Nay  not  to  ours  ! — for  us  he  poured 

His  life,  a  rich  libation, 
And  on  adoring  souls  we  wear 

This  .blood  of  consecration. 

A  twelvemonth  only,  since  his  sword 

Went  flashing  through  the  battle — 
A  twelvemonth  only,  since  his  ear 

Heard  "War's  last  deadly  rattle — 
And  yet  have  countless  pilgrim  feet, 

The  pilgrim's  guerdon  paid  him  ; 
And  weeping  women  come  to  see 

The  place  where  they  have  laid  him. 

Contending  armies  *  bring  in  turn, 

Their  meed  of  praise  or  honor, 
And  Pallas  here,  has  paused,  to  bind 

The  cypress  wreath  upon  her : 
It  seems  a  Holy  Sepulchre 

Whose  sanctities  can  waken 
Alike  the  love  of  friend  or  foe, 

Of  Christian  or  of  Pagan. 

They  come  to  own  his  high  emprise, 

Who  fled  in  frantic  masses ; 
Before  the  glittering  bayonet, 

That  triumphed  at  Manassas  : 


*  In  the  month  of  June,  the  singular  spectacle  was  presented  at 
Lexington,  Virginia,  of  two  hostile  armies,  in  turn,  reverently  visiting 
^the  grave  of  Stonewall  Jackson. 


518  THE   SOUTHEEN  AMARANTH. 

Who  witnessed  Kerntown's  fearful 
As  on  their  ranks  he  thundered ; 

Defiant  as  the  storied  Greek — 
Amid  his  brave  three  hundred. 


They  well  recall  the  tiger  spring, 

The  wise  retreat,  the  rally, 
The  tireless  march,  the  fierce  pursuit, 

Through  many  a  mountain  valley : 
Cross  Keys  unlocked  new  paths  to  famer 

And  Port  Eepublic's  story  ; 
"Wrests  from  his  ever  vanquished  foes, 

Strange  tributes  to  his  glory. 

Cold  Harbor  rises  to  their  view, 

The  Cedar's  gloom  is  o'er  them ; 
And  Antietam's  rough  wooded  heights. 

Stretch  mockingly  before  them ; 
The  lurid  flames  of  Fredericksburg 

Eight  grimly  they  remember, 
That  lit  the  frozen  night's  retreat, 

That  wintry,  wild  December. 

The  largesse  of  their  praise  is  flung 

With  bounty  rare  and  regal ; — 
Is  it  because  the  vulture  fears 

No  longer  the  dead  eagle  ? 
Nay  rather  far,  accept  it  thus  ; — 

An  homage  true  and  tender, 
As  soldier  unto  soldier's  worth, — 

As  brave  to  brave  will  render. 


STONEWALL  JACKSON'S   GKAYE.  519 

But  who  shall  weigh  the  wordless  grief 

That  leaves  its  tears  in  traces, 
As  round  their  leader  crowd  again 

The  bronzed  and  veteran  faces ! 
The  Old  Brigade  he  loved  so  well, 

The  mountain  men  who  bound  him 
With  bays  of  their  own  winning,  ere 

A  tardier  fame  had  crowned  him. 


The  legions  who  had  seen  his  glance 

Across  the  carnage  flashing, 
And  thrilled  to  catch  his  ringing  "  CHAEGE 1" 

Above  the  volley  crashing. 
Who  oft  had  watched  the  lifted  head, 

The  inward  trust  betraying, 
And  felt  their  courage  grow  sublime 

While  they  beheld  him  praying. 

Good  knights  and  true  as  ever  drew 

Their  swords  with  trusty  Eoland, 
Or  died  at  Sobieski's  side 

For  love  of  martyred  Poland, 
Or  knelt  with  Cromwell's  iron-sides, 

Or  sang  with  brave  Grustavus  ; 
Or  on  the  plains  of  Austerlitz 

Breathed  out  their  dying  Aves. 

Eare  fame  !  rare  name !     If  chanted  praise — 

With  all  the  world  to  listen, — 
If  pride  that  swells  a  nation's  soul, 

If  foeman's  tears  that  glisten — 


520  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

If  pilgrim's  shining  love — if  grief 
"Which  nought  may  soothe  or  sever, 

If  THESE,  can  consecrate, —  this  spot 
Is  sacred  ground  forever. 

LEXINGTON,  VA.,  June,  1864. 


The  Bev.  Dr.  Moore,  of  Richmond,  in  a  sermon  in  memory  of  our 
beloved  and  lamented  General  Stonewall  Jackson,  narrates  the  fol 
lowing  incident : 

"  Previous  to  the  first  battle  of  Manassas,  when  the  troops  under 
Stonewall  Jackson  had  made  a  forced  march,  on  halting  at  night  they 
fell  on  the  ground  exhausted  and  faint.  The  hour  arrived  for  setting 
the  watch  for  the  night.  The  officer  of  the  day  went  to  the  Gener 
al's  tent  and  said  : 

"  General,  the  men  are  all  wearied,  and  there  is  not  one,  but  is 
asleep.  Shall  I  wake  them  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  noble  Jackson,  "let  them  sleep,  and  I  will  watch 
the  camp  to-night." 

"  And  all  night  long  he  rode  round  that  lonely  camp,  the  one  lone 
sentinel,  for  that  brave,  but  weary  and  silent  body  of  Virginia  heroes. 
And  when  glorious  morning  broke,  the  soldiers  awoke  fresh  and 
ready  for  action,  all  unconscious  of  the  noble  vigils  kept  over  their 
slumbers." 

BY  JAMES.    B.    BANDALL.  * 

'TWAS  as  the  dying  of  the  day, 

The  darkness  grew  so  still, 
The  drowsy  pipe  of  evening  birds 

"Was  hushed  upon  the  hill. 


THE   LONE    SEMINAL.  521 

Athwart  the  shadows  of  the  vale 

Slumbered  the  men  of  might, 
And  one  lone  sentry  paced  his  rounds 

To  watch  the  camp  that  night 

A  grave  and  solemn  man  was  he, 

With  deep  and  sombre  brow  ; 
The  dreamful  eyes  seemed  hoarding  up 

Some  unaccomplished  vow. 
The  wistful  glance  peered  o'er  the  plain, 

Beneath  the  starry  light, 
And,  with  the  murmured  name  of  God, 

He  watched  the  camp  that  night. 

The  future  opened  unto  him, 

Its  grand  and  awful  scroll — 
Manassas  and  the  valley  march 

Came  heaving  o'er  his  soul ; 
Eichmond  and  Sharpsburg  thundered  by, 

"With  that  tremendous  fight, 
That  gave  him  to  the  angel  host, 

"Who  watched  the  camp  that  night 

We  mourn  for  him  who  died  for  us, 

With  one  resistless  moan, 
While  up  the  valley  of  the  Lord, 

He  marches  to  the  Throne  ! 
He  kept  the  faith  of  men  and  saints 

Sublime,  and  pure  and  bright ; 
He  sleeps — and  all  is  well  with  him 

Who  watched  the  camp  that  night. 


522  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Brothers  !  the  midnight  of  the  cause 

Is  shrouded  in  our  fate — 
The  demon  Goths  pollute  our  halls 

With  fire,  and  lust,  and  hate ! 
Be  strong,  be  valiant,  be  assured — 

Strike  home  for  Heaven  and  Bight  I 
The  soul  of  Jackson  stalks  abroad, 

A.nd  guards  the  camp  to-night  I 


BY  THE   KILKENNY  MAN. 
I. 

GOD  rest  you  !  Stonewall  Jackson— 
Now  your  gallant  heart  is  still, 

And  your  soul  has  fled  its  temple, 
At  the  Great  Jehovah's  will. 

II. 

Ah. !'  you  were  our  chosen  idol, 
As  we  watched  the  raging  war — - 

The  olive-leaf  whose  glossy  green 
Shut  out  the  Northern  star. 

III. 

In  the  Shenandoah  Yalley 

We  have  marked  your  glory  risey. 
Whilst  the  howls  of  flying  foemen 

Echoed  up  the  mocking  skies. 


STONEWALL  JACKSON.  .,       523 

IV. 

And  amid  the  deep  Blue  Mountains 
We  have  seen  your  bannered  braves, 

Till,  like  a  wood  of  cypresses, 
They  shadowed  Northern  graves. 

Y. 

At  Fredericksburg,  at  Sharpsburg, 

Thy  sabre  marked  the  way, 
And  thy  name,  along  the  Northern  ranks, 

Brought  terror  and  dismay. 

YI. 


And  here,  all  thro'  fair  Ireland, 

It  woke  a  magic  spell, 
To  see  thee,  glorious  Southron, 

Fight  the  great  fight  so  well, 
For  home  and  sacred  altars, 

For  a  darling  country's  weal, 
Till  you  graved  the  name  of  Freedom 

With  a  warrior's  flashing  steel  1 

YII. 

The  Northman  and  the  Southern, 

The  Saxon  and  the  Celt, 
The  Olive's  sheen,  the  Shamrock's  green, 

Are  colors  ready  blent — 
Blent  in  the  hue  of  Ireland, 

With  a  cause  her  very  own — 
Whether  speared  by  a  Eepublic, 

Or  shackled  to  a  Throne. 


524  THE  SOUTHEKN  AMAKANTH. 

YIIL 

'Tis  a  struggle  still  for  Freedom, 

At  home  and  thus  abroad — 
Thy  cause,  oh,  gallant  Jackson  I 

For  which  you  prayed  to  God — 
For  which  you  fought  unflinchingly, 

And  lived,  and  loved,  and  died, 
With  a  Christian's  love  of  Fatherland. 

A  patriot's  joyous  pride  ! 

IX. 

Then,  God  rest  you,  Stonewall  Jackson, 

Now  your  gallant  heart  is  still, 
And  your  soul  has  fled  its  temple, 

At  the  Great  Jehovah's  will ; 
But  your  mission  will  be  fruitful, 

Whilst  one  noble  heart  survives, 
For,  the  spirit  leaves  its  traces 

After  all  such  brilliant  lives. 

X. 

Yes,  your  mission  sets  us  thinking, 

Hoping,  praying,  for  our  own, 
Tor  the  beauteous  Mother  Ireland ! 

At  her  every  tear  aod  groan, 
That  there  rise  some  gallant  Jackson, 

Like  the  great  one  o'er  the  sea, 
And  a  Beauregard,  and  Johnson, 

And  a  Davis,  and  a  Lee  I 


DUBLIN  NATION. 


WHO  SHALL  BE   OUR  STANDARD-BEARER.  525 


BY   CHAHLES  DIMITEY. 


I. 


BROTHERS  !  when  our  cannons  rust  are, 
And  our  children's  children  dust  are, 
Who  shall  pierce  the  tears  and  laughter 
Of  the  days  to  come  hereafter 
With  the  mem'ry  of  his  story — 
Whose  the  triumph  and  the  glory 
Of  the  man  who  bore  the  standard, 
Chiefest,  in  the  struggling  vanguard— 
Who  was  greater,  purer,  rarer — 
Who  shall  be  our  standard-bearer  ? 

II. 

Who  was  he  who,  great  as  good, 
In  the  breach  supremely  stood, 
A  simple  man,  a  soldier  true, 
When,  around  his  country's  shrine, 
Gather' d  threat'ning  war  aftd  drew 
'Gainst  our  waiting  stalwart  few 
Half  a  hundred  thousand  men, 
Southward  pour'd  from  hill  and  glen, 
Hank  on  rank  and  line  on  line, 
Till  the  cloud  of' havoc  grew 
Black  in  Heaven's  sight,  and  burst 
In  a  storm  of  guns  accurst 
Where  the  swarming  hosts  came  down 
'Gainst  the  fair  beleaguered  town  ? 


526  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Then  our  greatest  soldier  came 
At  the  setting  of  the  sun ! 
Pierced  the  doubtful  battle's  flame, 
And  with  devastating  blow 
Struck  the  hostile  standard  low, 
And  each  broke]  i  regiment 
Back  through  midnight  chaos  sent, 
Eed  with  blood  and  pale  with  shame  1 
So  the  stubborn  field  was  won  1 

III. 

Ye  saw  him,  mountains  of  Luray, 
When  banded  battle  spent  its  pride 
In  one  long  week  of  dolorous  fray 
Against  his  slender  ranks  in  vain, 
Till  like  a  lion,  galled,  at  bay, 
Yex'd  by  the  hunter's  cries  and  stir, 
He  turned  and  pour'd  the  bloody  charge 
Of  dauntless  men  at  Winchester, 
And  as  the  tempest  lifts  the  main 
Swept  Port  Kepublic's  flaming  marge, 
And  Northward  ever,  and  afar, 
Koll'd  back  the  wreck-encumber'd  tide 
With  storm  of  swift,  disastrous  war  1 

IY. 

A  day  of  rest — a  time  of  pause  1 
And  lo !  once  more  the  menaced  cause 
Called  unto  him,  her  chiefest  son, 
From  warring  Eichmond,  where  the  brunt 
Of  battle  shook  the  city's  front  I 
Then,  answering,  came  our  trusted  one 
From  Shenandoah's  rocky  glen, 
Articulate  in  roar  of  gun 


WHO   SHALL  BE   OUR   STANDARD-BEARER.  527 

And  cheers  of  greatly  daring  men, 
And  roll  of  fierce,  avenging  drums, 
And  din  of  clam'rous  war  that  filled 
With  sudden  fear  the  hostile  rank, 
Till  higher,  higher,  higher  thrill'd 
The  peal  of  battle  on  the  flank, 
And  seaward  swept  the  foeman  down. 
And  jubilant  grew  the  rescued  town, 
"While  all  our  soldiers  with  acclaim 
Threw  up  their  hats  with  fierce  hurrah, 
And  cheered  and  blest  his  simple  name, 
Crying,  "  Behold !  our  greatest  comes ! 
Our  chiefest  chief — our  Joshua !' — 
And  later — when  Manassas'  plain 
The  hurly-burly  felt  again, 
And  rush  of  charging  squadrons  knew, 
And  saw  once  more  the  bleeding  rout — 
His  loud  defying  bugles  blew, 
And  long  victorious  flags  threw  out, 
Before  the  walls  of  Washington  I 

Y. 

Again,  O  trusty  chief  !  awake 
Thy  cannons  for  thy  country's  sake  1 
By  Bappahannock's  furrowed  heath, 
Above  the  bleak  December  snows, 
Anon  the  countless  standard  rose 
And  c  arge-compelling  trumpet's  blare 
From  Falmouth  fed  the  hungry  air, 
The  while,  on  every  windy  slope 
Our  guns  gave  greeting  to  the  foe, 
And  swept  the  surging  ranks  with  death ! 
Then  rose  in  wrath  our  country's  hope, 


528  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

And  bared  his  strong  right  arm  to  slayy 
And  where  the  battle's  hottest  breath 
Gave  fiercest  warning  to  the  fray, 
Smote,  with  a  sudden,  desperate  blow, 
The  circumventing  ranks,  and  lo  1 
The  storm  of  conflict  passed  away  I 

YI. 

Who  saw  him  at  the  last ! 

"When  Kappahannock's  ruined  fane 

The  loud  artillery  shook  again ! 

Who  saw  him  when  he  passed, 

Grave  and  calm  and  resolute, 

Through  the  tangled  Wilderness, 

Foeward,  while  the  sullen  roar 

Of  distant  guns  the  May  wind  bore' — 

An  hour  within  the  jungle  mute — 

An  hour  of  terrible  pause  !  while  he 

Pray'd  unto  God  for  victory 

And  all  his  arms  that  day  to  bless — 

Then  gave  the  foeman  to  the  sword ! 

And  though  the  covert's  mazes  swept 

With  battle's  multitudinous  clang, 

And  where  the  hostile  columns  crept 

An  avalanche  of  fire  poured, 

And  shoreward  hurl'd  th'  invading  pow'r  I 

And  all  that  desperate,  turbulent  day 

Kose  with  the  greatness  of  the  fray, 

Until  that  dark,  calamitous  hour — 

A  bleeding  country's  doom  and  knell — 

When  ambushed  tongues  of  flame  out-leapt, 

A  sudden  murderous  volley  rang — 

And  lo !  in  Victory's  arms  our  standard-bearer  fell  I 


THE   STONEWALL  CEMETERY.  529 

VII. 

Beat,  funeral  drums ! 

For  our  mighty  Captain  comes, 

Dead  and  lowly  as  the  least  he  led  I 
Weep,  beleaguered  town, 
For  thy  tower  shaken  down, 

And  thy  steadfast,  firm  protector  dead  I 
Good  he  was  and  great  I 
Well  he  loved  his  State, 

And  in  his  heart  did  ever  wear  her  I 
Wherefore  shall  she  pray 
For  his  rest  alway — 

Her  leader  and  her  great  sword-bearer  I 

YIIL 

Brothers  !  when  our  cannons  rust  are, 
And  our  children's  children  dust  are, 
He  shall  pierce  the  tears  and  laughter 
Of  the  days  to  come  hereafter 
With  the  mem'ry  of  his  story 
And  the  fullness  of  our  glory  ! 
He  was  greater,  purer,  rarer — 
He  shall  be  our  standard-bearer  I 

NEW  ORLEANS  SUNDAY  TnvTRfl. 
NFW  YOKE,  August,  1867. 


Lines  written  by  MRS.  M.  K.  CLARK,  ("  TENELLA")  of  North  Carolina, 
in  behalf  of  the  '  *  Stonewall  Cemetery, "  Winchester,    Va. " 

THE  storm  of  war  which  swept  our  country  wide, 
Like  snow-flakes  scattered  graves  on  every  side, 
H  ere,  heaped  in  drifts  on  battle  fields  they  lie, 


530  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

There,  dropped  like  leaves,  where  soldiers  chanced  to 

die! 

Back  to  their  homes  our  State  has  brought 
Some  honored  sons  who  for  her  freedom  fought, 
And  where  their  feet  in  youth  and  manhood  strayed 
Beneath  their  native  sod  her  children  laid ; 
That  kindred  hands  with  loving  care  may  keep 
The  graves  in  which  her  cherished  soldiers  sleep. 
Thus  to  her  heart  in  close  embrace  she  drew 
Her  G-ORDON,  FENDER,  BRANCH,  and  PETTIGREW. 
But  ah  !  there's  many  a  one  as  leal  and  brave, 
Who  slumbers  in  a  soldier's  unmarked  grave, 
Buried  just  where  he  fell  by  friend  or  foe, 
Without  one  sign  by  which  his  State  may  know, 
Now  that  the  fearful  conflict's  wholly  done, 
What  mound  enfolds  the  ashes  of  her  son. 
Right  nobly  did  she  do  her  part  to  fill, 
Those  unmarked  graves  which  dot  each  vale  and  hill, 
Where  bravely  fought,  and  oh  !  how  bravely  died, 
Virginia's  boast,  and  Carolina's  pride  ! 
The  grand,  gigantic  Stonewall  of  our  cause, 
Whose  name  we  breathe,  and  then  in  reverence  pause. 
And  shall  they  lie  uncared  for  where  they  fell, 
Without  one  mark  the  soldier's  grave  to  tell  ? 
Were  they  not  Jackson  s  boys  ?  and  does  not  he 
Stand  in  our  hearts  beside  immortal  Lee  ? 

Ah !  for  his  sake  Virginia's  daughters  ask, 
Each  sister  State  to  aid  them  in  their  task, 
And  ere  their  graves  like  snow  flakes  melt  away, 
The  bones  of  JACKSON'S  boys  together  lay, 
That  they  in  death  may  sleep  beneath  that  name 
Which  shed  upon  their  lives  its  rays  of  fame. 


i 
MISEBEKE.  631 


BY   MISS    EvA    M.     POKTEB,     AT.ATU1VTA. 

HOLY  MARY  ! 

Thou  liast  known  the  woe  of  life, 
Thou  art  past  the  bitter  strife, 
Look  upon  us  from  thy  rest 
Bear  our  sorrows  on  thy  breast, 

Holy  Mary ! 

By  thy  gentle  name  I  bear 
By  this  womanhood  I  wear, 
Broken-hearted !     Let  me  lean 
On  thy  bosom  Heaven  Queen ! 

Miserere  ! 

Holy  Mary  ! 

Does  the  blood  heroic  shed 
Cry  in  vain  ?     Alas,  our  dead  ! 
May  I  see  the  patriot's  name 
High  in  Heaven  through  sword  and  flame, 

Holy  Mary ! 

May  the  purple  path  they  trod 
Lead  my  weary  feet  to  God  ; 
Slumberers  on  historic  plain, 
Teach  my  hand  to  wear  its  chain, 

Miserere ! 

Holy  Mary ! 

•Crown  the  victories  ;  they  have  won 
Freedom  through  thy  martyred  son, 


532  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Lo  !  the  silvered  cross  is  high. 
Borne  aloft  to  Southern  sky  I 

Holy  Mary ! 

Gloria  I  for  those  who  fell 
On  their  spotless  shields,  'tis  well ! 
Sigh  thou  with  us — stricken  band, 
Miserere,  motherland  ! 

Miserere ! 

Holy  Mary ! 

Giant  sorrows  drag  their  length, 
Noiseless  in  their  deadly  strength  j 
I  have  wept,  ah,  let  me  weep  ! 
Keck  my  tearless  heart  to  sleep, 

Holy  Mary ! 

Guide  me  to  thy  sweet  relief. 
By  our  sister-hood  of  grief, 
Bear  the  Father  every  cry, 
"Woman  angel !  sigh  for  sigh  I 

Miserere  1 

LADIES'  HOME. 


IN  the  cool  sweet  hush  of  a  wooded  nook, 

Where  the  May-buds  sprinkle  the  green  old  moundr 

And  the  winds  and  the  birds  and  the  limped  brook, 
Murmur  their  dreams  with  a  drowsy  sound ; 

Who  lies  so  still  in  the  plushy  moss, 

With  his  pale  cheek  pressed  on  a  breezy  pillow, 


MISSING. 


533 


Couched  where  the  lights  and  the  shadows  cross 
Thro'  the  flickering  fringe  of  the  billow, 

Who  lies,  alas ! 
So  still,  so  chill,  in  the  whispering  grass  ? 

A  soldier  clad  in  the  Zouave  dress, 

A  bright-haired  man,  with  his  lips  apart, — 
One  hand  thrown  up  o'er  his  frank,  dead  face 

And  the  other  clutching  his  pulseless  heart, 
Lies  there  in  the  shadows  cool  and  dim, 

His  musket  swept  by  a  trailing  bough 
"With  a  careless  grace  in  his  quiet  limbs, 

And  a  wound  in  his  manly  brow  ; 

A  wound,  alas ! 
Whence  the  warm  blood  drips  in  the  quiet  grass. 

And  the  violets  peer  from  their  dusky  beds, 

With  a  tearful  dew  in  their  great,  pure  eyes. 
And  the  lilies  quiver  their  shining  heads, 

Their  pale  lips  full  or  sad  surprise  ; 
And  the  lizard  darts  thro'  the  glistening  fern — 

And  the  squirrel  rustles  the  branches  hoary — 
Strange  birds  fly  out  with  a  cry,  to  bathe 

Their  wings  in  the  sunset  glory. 

While  the  shadows  pass 

O'er  the  quiet  face  and  the  dewy  grass. 

God  pity  the  bride  who  waits  at  home 
With  her  lily  cheeks  and  her  violet  eyes, 

Dreaming — the  sweet  old  dream  of  love, 
While  her  lover  is  walking  in  Paradise  ; 

God  strengthen  her  heart  as  the  days  go  by 
And  the  long  drear  nights  of  her  vigil  follow, 


534          THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

'Nor  bird  nor  moon,  nor  whispering  wind 
May  breathe  the  tale  of  the  hollow ; 

Alas !  alas ! 
The  secret  is  safe  in  the  woodland  grass* 


DEAD  !     Well,  I  have  written  the  word,  and  I  gaze 

On  it  still,  and  again, 
Till  the  four  simple  letters  turn  up  in  a  blaze 

And  sear  deep  in  my  brain. 

Ah !  proudly  my  first-born  sprang  up  to  the  fight, 

And  /gave  him  his  sword, 
And  I  bade  him  watch  well  that  his  name  was  as  bright^ 

And  as  stainless  his  word. 

Was  that  time  for  weeping  ?     I  conquered  a  groan 

For  a  cheerful  good-bye ; 
God  knows  how  the  stillness  of  night  heard  me 

How  his  ear  met  my  cry. 

And  then  came  the  praises.     He,  first  everywhere, 

He,  my  blessing !  my  pride  ! 
It  was  mine,  all  his  mother's,  the  guerdon  to  share 

In  my  joy,  fear  allied. 

* 

One  battle  :  another — and  spared  to  me  still ; 

God  !     Thy  mercy  is  great  1 
But  one  more  day's  conflict  is  yet  to  fulfill — 

I  ponder,  and  wait 


DEAD.  535 

Not  too  long  !  not  too  long  !  oh  !  no,  never  too  long, 

For  my  sentence  is  read, 
And,  sitting  here  still,  with  mj  prayer  to  be  strong, 

They  bring  me  my  dead.- 

Dead  !  I  summon  ye  mothers  who  suffer  as  I, 

(For  we  wail  not  alone) 
To  stand  by  this  bier-side,  and  answer  my  cry, 

If  this,  this  be  my  son. 

My  hero  laid  here,  with  the  shouts  going  forth 

For  a  victory  won  ? 
Ah !  patriots  I  know  what  a  victory's  worth, 

When  it  leaves  me  forlorn. 

These  temples  cut  through,  with  a  round  cruel  hole, 
Under  the  blood-dabbled  hair — 

These  dear  lips,  this  breast  that  my  weak  arms  enfold, 
Echo  not  my  despair. 

"Well,  the  world  goes  by  tamely — men  smile  as  they 
smiled, 

And  the  black  hours  roll  past 
Over  me  in  my  grief— me,  bereft  of  my  child, — 
Waiting  on  for  the  last ! 

Life's  happiness  finished,  I  finish  its  fear  ; 

Oh  !  my  bright  angel  one  ! 
For  thee  higher  glory — for  me,  to  watch  here 

By  the  sepulchre  stone  I 
RICHMOND  EXAMINEE. 


636  THE  SOUTHERN  AMAKANTH. 


BY  WM.  GOEDON  MC  CAEE,  MARYLAND. 

SWEET  Malvern  Hill  is  wreathed  in  flame, 

From  serried  ranks  the  steel  is  gleaming ; 
Our  legions  march  to  death  and  fame, 

Their  battle  flags  right  wildly  streaming. 
Each  hero  bares  his  manly  breast, 

And  gallant  hearts  are  fiercely  beating ; 
With  steady  tramp  they  line  the  crest, 

O'er  which  an  iron  hail  is  sleeting. 

Up  loom  the  bastions  grim  and  large, 
Thro'  battle  smoke  that's  lowering  near  them ; 

The  little  drummers  roll  "  the  charge," 
And  dying  comrades  raise  to  cheer  them. 

Twice  forty  guns  with  deadly*  aim, 

Strike  down  our  lines  in  tones  of  thunder; 

Yet  still  they  press  with  eyes  aflame, 

Till  Valor's  self  looks  on  in  wonder. 
****** 

But  now  the  human  tide  rolls  back — 

A  ghastly  remnant  grim  and  gory — 
And  countless  heroes  mark  the  track 

Which  led  them  up  to  heights  of  Glory  ! 
But  ONE  still  presses  on  amain,    . 

Where  double-shotted  guns  are  frowning ; 
Above,  amidst  the  iron  rain, 

He  nobly  wins  a  hero's  crowning. 

*  After  the  battle  of  Malvern  Hill,  a  soldier  was  found  dead  fifty 
yards  in  advance  of  any  officer  or  man — his  musket  firmly  grasped 
in  his  rigid  fingers, — name  unknown, — simply  "  2  La."  on  his  cap. 


AN   UNKNOWN    HERO.  537 

Through  all  the  battle-smoke  he'd  seen 

The  saintly  forms  of  angels  bearing 
The  laurels  crowns,  forever  green, 

To  wreathe  the  foreheads  of  the  daring. 
And  eager  for  his  priceless  crown — 

The  bastions  scarce  a  length  before  him — 
The  stalwart  form  at  length  went  down, 

With  Death  and  Honor  bending  o'er  him. 

Brave  soldier  of  our  Southern  clime, 

No  stately  song  nor  brilliant  story 
Shall  hand  thy  name  to  future  time 

As  one  who  gained  immortal  glory. 
But  Freedom,  with  her  mailed  hand, 

Has  paused  to  brush  a  tear  of  sorrow, 
And  placed  thee  with  that  chosen  band, 

Who  freely  pour  their  life's-blood  for  her. 

And  Yalor,  with  her  royal  brow, 

And  Honor,  with  her  stately  bearing, 
Have  surely  felt  a  prouder  glow, 

When  musing  on  thy  peerless  daring. 
O  gallant  soldier  all  unknown, 

Though  noisy  Fame,  we  know,  shall  never 
Proclaim  thy  deeds  through  every  zone, 

A  hero's  crown  is  thine  forever  I 

CAMP  NEAB  RICHMOND,  1862. 
ILLUSTRATED  NEWS. 


538  THE   SOUTHERN    AMARANTH. 


CUE  EIGHT  EETEEEND  FATHER  IN  GOD, 

LEONIDAS    POLK. 

BISHOP    OF    THE    DIOCESE    OF    LOUISIANA,    LIEUTENANT 
GENERAL,    CONFEDERATE   STATES   ARMY. 

BY  FANNY  DOWNING. 

PEACE,  troubled  soul !     The  strife  is  done, 

This  life's  fierce  conflicts  and  its  woes  are  ended ; 
There  is  no  more — eternity  begun, 

Faith  merged  in  sight — hope  with  fruition  blended* 

Peace,  troubled  soul  I 
The  warrior  rests  upon  his  bier, 

Within  his  coffin  calmly  sleeping ! 
His  requiem  the  cannon  peals, 
And  heroes  of  a  hundred  fields 
Their  last  sad  watch  are  round  him  keeping. 

JOY,  sainted  soul  I     Within  the  vale 

Of  Heaven's  great  temple,  is  thy  blissful  dwelling 
Bathed  in  light,  to  which  the  sun  is  pale, 

Archangels'  hymns  in  endless  transport  swelling. 

Joy,  sainted  soul ! 
Back  to  her  altar  which  he  served, 

The  Holy  Church  her  child  is  bringing, 
The  organ's  wail  then  dies  away, 
And  kneeling  priests  around  him  prayf 
As  De  Profundis  they  are  singing. 


IN   MEMORIAM.  53$ 

Bring  all  the  trophies,  that  are  owed 

To  him  at  once  so  great  so  good, 
His  Bible  and  his  well  used  sword, — 

His  snowy  lawn — not  "  stained  with  blood  !" 
No !  pure  as  when  before  his  God, 

He  laid  its  spotless  folds  aside, 
"War's  path  of  awful  duty  trod, 

And  on  his  country's  altar  died ! 

Oh !  Warrior,  Bishop,  Church  and  State 

Sustains  in  thee  an  equal  loss ; 
But  who  would  call  thee  from  thy  weight 

Of  glory,  back  to  bear  life's  cross  ! 
The  Faith  was  kept — thy  course  was  run, 

Thy  good  fight  finished ;  hence  the  wordp 
"  Well  done,  oh !  faithful  child,  well  done, 

Taste  thou  the  mercies  of  thy  Lord  I" 

"No  dull  decay  nor  lingering  pain, 

By  slow  degrees  consumed  thy  health^ 
A  glowing  messenger  of  flame 

Translated  thee  by  fiery  death ! 
Arid  we  who  in  our  common  grief 

Are  bending  now  beneath  the  rod, 
In  this  sweet  thought  may  find  relief, 

"  Our  Holy  Father  walked  with  God, 
And  is  not — God  has  taken  him  1" 


540  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


BY   HAEKY  L.    FLASH. 

Killed  before  Kennesaw  Mountain,  June  1.<tih,  1864. 

A  FLASH  from  the  edge  of  the  hostile  trench, 

A  puff  of  smoke,  a  roar, 
Whose  echo  shall  roll  from  the  Kennesaw  hills 

To  the  farthermost  Christian  shore, 
Proclaims  to  the  world  that  the  warrior-priest 

Will  battle  for  right  no  more ! 

And  that  for  a  cause  which  is  sanctified, 
By  the  blood  of  martyrs  unknown — 

A  cause  for  which  they  gave  their  lives, 
And  for  which  he  gave  his  own — 

He  kneels,  a  meek  ambassador, 

At  the  foot  of  the  Father's  Throne. 

And  up  in  the  courts  of  another  world 

Which  angels  alone  have  trod, 
He  lives  away  from  the  din  and  strife 

Of  this  blood-besprinkled  sod, 
Crowned  by  the  amaranthine  wreath, 

That  is  worn  by  the  blest  of  Grod. 


BY  "LATIENNE." 

FROM  the  broad  and  calm  Potomac, 
To  the  Kio  Grande's  waves ; 

Have  the  brave  and  noble  fallen — 
And  the  earth  is  strewn  with  graves. 


THE   CONFEDERATE  DEAD,  541 

In  the  vale  and  on  the  hill-side, 

Through  the  woods  and  by  the  stream^ 

Has  the  martial  pageant  faded, 
Like  the  vision  of  a  dream. 


Where  the  reveille  resounded 

And  the  stirring  call  "  to  arms  I" 
Nod  the  downy  heads  of  clover 

To  the  wind's  mesmeric  charms  ; 
Where  the  heels  of  trampling  squadrons 

Beat  to  dust  the  mountain  pass, 
Hang  the  dew-drop's  fragile  crystal, 

From  the  slender  stems  of  grass. 

Where  the  shock  of  meeting  armies 

Eoused  the  air  in  raging  waves, 
And  with  sad  and  hollow  groanings, 

Echoed  earth's  deep,  hidden  caves  ; 
Where  the  cries  of  crushed  and  dying 

Pierced  the  elemental  strife, 
Where  lay  death  in  sickening  horror 

'Neath  the  maddened  rush  of  life, 

Quiet  reigns  now  sweet  and  pensive, 

All  is  hushed  in  dreamless  rest, 
And  the  pitying  arms  of  Nature 

Hold  our  heroes  on  her  breast. 
Shield  them  well,  oh  tender  mother, 

While  the  morn  and  evening  breath 
Whispers  us,  the  sad  survivors 

Of  their  victory  in  death. 


542  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

What  though  no  stately  column, 

Their  cherished  names  may  raise, 
To  dim  the  eyes,  and  move  the  lips 

With  gratitude  and  praise — 
The  blue  sky — hung  with  bannered  clouds, 

Their  solemn  dome  shall  be, 
All  heaven's  choiring  winds  shall  chant 

The  anthem  of  the  free. 

The  spring  with  vine-leafed  arms  shall  clasp, 

Their  hillocked  resting  places  ; 
And  summer  roses  droop  above. 

With  flushed  and  dewy  faces ; 
Fair  daisies  rayed,  and  crowned,  shall  spring 

Like  stars  from  out  their  dust, 
And  look  to  kindred  stars  on  high, 

With  eyes  of  patient  trust. 

And  vainly  shall  the  witlings'  lips 

Assail  with  envious  dart, 
The  fame  of  our  heroic  dead 

Whose  stronghold  is  the  heart — 
The  Nation's  heart  not  wholly  crushed, 

Though  each  throb  be  in  pain, 
For  life  and  hope  will  still  survive 

Where  love  and  faith  remain. 
EUFAULA,  ALA.,  1865.  METROPOLITAN  BEOOBDU 


IN  MEMOKIAM.  543 


tt 


GENERAL     JOHN     B.     FLOYD. 

BY    EULALIE. 

THE  noble  hero  calmly  sleeps, 

Unheeding  all  life's  surging  woes,  — 

An  angel  guard  its  vigil  keeps 
Above  his  couch  of  deep  repose. 

How  still  that  brain  !  once  full  of  thought  ; 

How  calm  that  pulse,  which  wildly  beat  ; 
Grim  death  the  mighty  change  hath  wrought, 

And  now  he  lies  in  rest  most  sweet 

Hushed  to  his  ear  the  siren's  song  ; 

Hushed  is  the  clarion  trump  of  fame  ; 
No  more  applauds  the  listening  throng  — 

His  rich  tones  thrill  them  not  again  ! 


O 


"Virginia  mourns  her  gallant  son, 

Whose  voice  of  wisdom  charmed  her  heart; 
How  many  a  noble  conquest  won, 

When  he,  from  virtue  would  not  part 

And  on  the  battle's  gory  field 

When  foes  assailed  our  Southern  land, 

His  dauntless  spirit  would  not  yield 
But  boldly  met  the  invading  band. 


544  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

With  anxious  cares  Ms  soul  harassed ; 

What  sleepless  nights  his  pillow  found ; 
But  now,  those  bitter  pangs  are  past 

He  heeds  no  more  the  bugle's  sound ! 

He  sleeps  in  Jesus,  blissful  sleep  ; 

His  cares  forgotten,  sorrow  o'er, 
With  loved  ones,  where  no  eye  can  weep, 

He  treads  in  peace  the  Eternal  shore. 

That  eagle  eye  now  sweeps  through  space, 
And  reads  the  open  book  of  love ; 

That  voice  shall  to  the  Lamb  give  praise 

While  endless  cycles  onward  move  I 
NEW  YOKE  NEWS,  Wood  Lawn,  Aprtt,  1866. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

[WHILE  confined  as  a  prisoner  of  war  at  Camp  Chase,  Colonel  William  S. 
Hawkins,  of  Tennessee,  a  gallant  soldier  of  the  C.  S.  A.,  became  favorably 
known  to  Northern  readers  as  a  poet.  At  the  time  of  his  death,  which  oc 
curred  shortly  after  his  release  from  captivity,  he  had  in  preparation  a  volume 
entitled  "Behind  the  Bars."  This  memorial  tribute  is  from  a  friend  in  Nash 
ville.] 


NOT  now  (alas !  for  us),  not  now, 
Our  warrior-poet  dreams  of  fame 

Behind  those  "  Bars"  where  gleamed  a  brow 
Lit  up  with  glory's  lambent  flame. 


OF  THH 

UNIVERSITY 


COL.   W.    S.    HAWKINS.  545 

II. 

Mute  witnesses  those  bars  have  been 

To  noble  deeds  and  lofty  strains  ; 
There,  resignation  dwelt  unseen, 

And  manly  impulse,  bound  in  chains, 

in. 
There,  self-reliance  reached  its  height, 

And  gentle  self-denial  came, 
Through  many  a  dark  and  bitter  night, 

To  twine  immortelles  round  his  name. 

IV. 

And  there,  where  vice,  in  horrid  tones 
With  foulness  shocked  the  shuddering  air, 

Blaspheming  through  impotent  groans, 
He  stilled  the  tempest  oft  with  prayer. 

v. 
There,  too,  when  squalid  ignorance  groped 

In  wan  despair  for  death's  release, 
He  soothed  and  cheered  till  lost  ones  hoped, 

And,  dying,  blessed  the  words  of  peace. 

VI. 

The  prison-house  that  holds  him  now, 

All  windowless  and  dark  for  aye, 
No  friendly  glimpses  may  allow, 

For  bars  eternal  close  the  way. 

VII. 

"Dust  unto  dust"  is  God's  decree, 
The  noblest  cannot  but  fulfil ; 


546  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

Yet  wide,  unbounded  liberty 

His  franchised  soul  inherits  still. 


vm. 


Oh  !  free  to  sing  and  soar  away, 
Untrammelled  by  one  earthly  bar, 

Back  to  the  source  of  endless  day 
His  spirit  speeds  from  star  to  star. 


BY  JAMES  R.     EANDALL. 


JUST  as  the  Spring  came  laughing  through  the  strife, 

With  all  its  gorgeous  cheer, 
In  the  bright  April  of  historic  life 

Fell  the  great  cannoneer. 

The  sudden  lulling  of  a  hero's  breath, 

His  bleeding  country  weeps, 
Hushed  in  the  alabaster  arms  of  Death, 

Our  young  Marcellus  sleeps ! 

Nobler  and  grander  than  the  child  of  Kome, 

Curbing  his  chariot  steeds, 
The  knightly  scion  of  a  Southern  home, 

Dazzled  the  land  with  deeds. 

Gentlest  and  bravest  in  the  battle  brunt, 

The  champion  of  Truth, 
He  bore  his  banner  to  the  very  front 

Of  our  immortal  youth. 


JOHN  PELHAM.  547 

A  cloud  of  sabres  'mid  Virginian  snow, 

The  fiery  rush  of  shells — 
And  there's  a  wail  of  immemorial  woe 

In  Alabama  dells. 

The  pennon  droops  that  led  the  sabred  band 

Along  the  crimson  field  ; 
The  meteor  blade  sinks  from  the  nerveless  hand, 

Over  the  spotless  shield. 

We  gazed,  and  gazed  upon  that  beauteous  face, 

"While  round  the  lips  and  eyes, 
Couched  in  the  marble  slumber,  flashed  the  grace 

Of  a  divine  surprise. 

O  Mother  of  a  blessed  soul  on  high  ! 

Thy  tears  may  soon  be  shed — 
Think  of  thy  boy  with  princes  of  the  sky, 

Among  the  Southern  dead. 

How  must  he  smile  on  this  dull  world  beneath, 

Fevered  with  swift  renown — 
He — with  the  martyr's  amaranthine  wreath, 

Twining  the  victor's  crown. 
March  17th,  1863. 


548  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

in  tin 

HEARD   AFTER   PELHAM  DIED. 

BY   JOHN   ESTEN     COOKE. 

OH,  band  in  the  pine-wood  cease ! 

Cease  with  your  splendid  call ; 
The  living  are  brave  and  noble, 

But  the  dead  are  bravest  of  all ! 

They  throng  to  the  martial  summons, 

To  the  loud  triumphant  strain, 
And  the  clear  bright  eyes  of  long  dead  friendsy 

Come  to  the  heart  again  ! 

They  come  with  the  ringing  bugle, 
And  the  deep  drums'  mellow  roar ; 

Till  the  soul  is  faint  with  longing 
For  the  hands  we  clasp  no  more ! 

Oh,  band  in  the  pine-wood  cease  ! 

Or  the  heart  will  melt  with  tears, 
For  the  gallant  eyes  and  the  smiling  lips ; 

And  the  voices  of  old  years. 

SOTTTHEBN  ILLUSTEATED   NEWS. 


THE  swallow  leaves  the  ancient  eaves 

As  in  the  days  agone, 
The  wheaten  fields  are  all  ablaze, 
And  in  and  out  the  west  wind  plays, 
Amid  the  tasseled  corn. 


THE   UNRETUENING.  549 

The  sun's  rays  light  as  warm  and  bright 
On  clover  fields  all  red ; 

'The  wild  bird  wakes  his  simple  song 

As  joyfully,  the  whole  day  long, 

As  if  he  were  not  dead. 

The  summer  skies  with  softest  sighs, 

Their  rain  and  sunshine  send, 

And  standing  in  the  farm-house  door, 

I  see — dotting  the  landscape  o'er — 

The  flocks  he  used  to  tend. 

The  woodbine  grows — the  jasmin  blows — 

Beside  the  window-sill ; 
Their  soft  sweet  sigh  is  in  the  air, 
For  the  dear  hands  that  placed  them  there, 
On  the  red  field  are  still. 

Around  the  wolds  the  summer  folds 

Her  wreath  of  golden  light, 
And,  past  the  willow's  silvery  gleam, 
I  catch  the  glimmering  of  the  stream, 

And  lilies,  cool  and  white. 

But  oh  !  one  shade  has  solemn  made 

The  sunshine  and  the  bloom, 
His  voice,  whose  sweet  and  gentle  words, 
Were  sweeter  than  the  song  of  birds, 
Is  silent  in  the  tomb. 

How  can  the  day  so  bright  and  gay 

Glare  round  the  farm-house  door? 
When  all  the  quiet  ways  he  trod 
By  leafy  wood  or  blooming  sod, 

Shall  know  him  never  more  ! 


550  THE  SOUTHEBN  AMARANTH. 


BY   W.     WINSTON    FONTAINE,  VIRGINIA,. 

MOUKN,  mourn  along  thy  mountains  high  I' 
Mourn,  mourn  along  thine  ocean  wave  1 
Virginia  mourn  !  thy  bravest  brave 

Has  struck  for  thee  his  last  good  blow  I 
0,  south  wind  breathe  thy  softest  sigh, 
0  young  moon,  shed  thy  gentlest  light — • 
Ye  silver  dews  come  weep  to-night, 

To  honor  Stuart — lying  low ! 

The  princeliest  scion  of  a  royal  race,f 
The  knightliest  of  his  knightly  name, 
The  imperial  brow  encrowned  by  fame, 

Lies  pallid  on  his  mother's  breast  t 
How  sadly  tender  is  her  face, 
Virginia  dearly  loved  this  son, 
And  now  his  glorious  race  is  run ! 

Tearful  she  bows  her. martial  crest 

She  bows  her  head  in  the  midst  of  war, 
With  booming  cannon  rumbling  round, 
Mid  crash  of  musket  and  the  sound 

Of  drum  and  trumpet  clanging  wild. 

*  Died  of  a  wound  received  at  Yellow  Tavern,  near  Eichmond,  Vir 
ginia,  May  llth,  1864. 

f  General  J.  E.  B.  Stuart,  sprang  from  the  Boyal  House  of  Scot 
land. 


STUART.  551 

Fierce  cries  of  fight  rise  near  and  far ; 

Bat  "  dulce  et  decorum  est" 

For  him  who  nobly  falls  to  rest, — 

Virginia  monrns  her  peerless  child  I 

The  fair  young  wife  bewails  her  lord, 
The  blooming  maidens  weep  for  him, 
Fierce  trooper's  eyes  with  tears  grow  dim, 

And  all,  all  mourn  the  chieftain  dead ! 
Place  by  his  side  his  trusty  sword, 
Now  cross  his  hands  upon  his  breast  I 
And  let  the  glorious  warrior  rest, 

Enshrouded  in  his  banner  red. 


No  more  our  courtly  cavalier 

Shall  lead  his  squadrons  to  the  fight ! 

No  more !  no  more  !  his  sabre  bright 

Shall  dazzling  flash  in  foeman's  eyes  ; 
No  more  !  no  more !  his  ringing  cheer 
Shall  fright  the  Northman  in  his  tent, 
Nor  swift  as  eagle  in  descent, 

Shall  he  the  boastful  foe  surprise. 

. 
But  when  his  legions  meet  the  foe 

"With  gleaming  sabre  lifted  high, 
His  name  shall  be  their  battle  cry, 

His  name  shall  steel  them  in  the  fray ! 
And  many  a  Northman  'neath  the  blow 
Of  Southern  brand  shall  strew  the  ground, 
While  on  the  breeze  the  slogan  sound — 

Stuart !  Stuart !  shall  ring  dismay. 


552  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Mourn,  mourn  along  thy  mountains  high  ! 
Mourn,  mourn  along  thine  ocean  wave  ! 
Virginia  mourn,  thy  bravest  brave 

Has  struck  for  thee  his  last  good  blow  I 
0  south  wind,  breathe  thy  softest  sigh, 
0  young  moon,  shed  thy  tenderest  light, 
Ye  silver  dews,  come  weep  to-night 

To  honor  Stuart,  lying  low. 


BY  JOHN  E.    THOMPSON. 


WE  could  not  pause  while  yet  the  noontide  air 
Shook  with  the  cannonade's  incessant  pealing, 

The  funereal  pageant  fitly  to  prepare — 
A  nation's  grief  revealing. 

The  smoke,  above  the  glimmering  woodland  wide, 
That  skirts  our  southward  border  in  its  beauty, 

Marked  where  our  heroes  stood  and  fought  and  died 
For  love  and  faith  and  duty. 

And  still,  what  time  the  doubtful  strife  went  on, 
We  might  not  find  expression  for  our  sorrow  ; 

We  could  but  lay  our  dear,  dumb  warrior  down, 
And  gird  as  for  the  morrow. 

One  weary  year  agone,  when  came  a  lull, 
With  victory  in  the  conflict's  stormy  closes, 

When  the  glad  Spring  all  flushed  and  beautiful, 
First  mocked  us  with  her  roses — 


GEN.    J.    E.    B.    STUAKT.  553 

With  dirge  and  bell  and  minute  gun,  we  paid 
Some  few  poor  rites — an  inexpressive  token 

Of  a  great  people's  pain — to  JACKSON'S  shade, 
In  agony  unspoken. 

No  wailing  trumpet  and  no  tolling  bell, 
No  cannon,  save  the  battle's  boom  receding 

When  STUART  to  the  grave  we  bore,  might  tell, 
With  hearts  all  crushed  and  bleeding. 

The  crises  suited  not  with  pomp,  and  she 

Whose  anguish  bears  the  seal  of  consecration, 

Had  wished  his  Christian  obsequies  could  be 
Thus  void  of  ostentation. 

Only  the  maidens  came  sweet  flowers  to  twine 
Above  his  form  so  still,  and  cold,  and  painless, 

Whose  deeds  upon  our  brightest  records  shine, 
Whose  life  and  sword  were  stainless. 

They  well  remembered  how  he  loved  to  dash 
Into  the  fight,  festooned  from  summer  bowers  ; 

.How  like  a  fountain's  spray  his  sabre  flash 
Leaped  from  a  mass  of  flowers. 

And  so  we  carried  to  his  place  of  rest, 
All  that  of  our  great  Paladin  was  mortal : 

The  cross,  and  not  the  sabre  on  his  breast, 
That,  opes  the  heavenly  portal. 

No  more  of  tribute  might  to  us  remain — 

But  there  will  come  a  time  when  Freedom's  martyrs, 

A  richer  guerdon  of  renown  shall  gain, 
Than  gleams  in  stars  and  garters. 


554  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

I  claim  no  prophet's  vision,  but  I  see 

Through  coming  years — now  near  at  hand,  not  dis 
tant — 
My  country  rescued  glorious  and  free, 

And  strong,  and  self-existent. 

I  hear  from  out  that  sunlit-  land  which  lies 

Beyond  these  clouds  that  gather  darkly  o'er  us ; 

The  happy  sounds  of  industry  arise 
In  swelling,  peaceful  chorus. 

And  mingling  with  these  sounds,  the  glad  acclaim 
Of  millions  undisturbed  by  war's  afflictions, 

Crowning  each  martyr's  never  dying  name 
With  grateful  benedictions. 

I  see  some  future  gardens  of  delight, 

Where  flowers   shall  bloom  and  song  birds  sweetly 

warble, 
Art  shall  erect  the  statues  of  our  knights, 

In  living  bronze  and  marble : 

And  none  of  all  that  bright  heroic  throng, 

Shall  wear  to  far  off  time  a  semblance  grander — 

Shall  still  be  decked  with  fresher  wreaths  of  song 
Than  this  beloved  commander. 

The  Spanish  legend  tells  us  of  the  Cid, 
That  after  death,  he  rode  erect,  sedately, 

Along  his  lines,  even  as  in  life  he  did, 
In  presence  yet  more  stately. 


THE   SOLDIEE   WHO  EIED   TO-DAY.  555 

And  thus  our  STUAET  at  this  moment,  seems 
To  ride  out  of  our  dark  and  troubled  story, 

Into  the  regions  of  romance  and  dreams 
A  realm  of  light  and  glory — 

And  sometimes  when  the  silver  bugles  blow, 
That  ghostly  form  in  battle  reappearing, 

Shall  lead  his  horsemen  headlong  on  the  foe, 
In  victory  careering ! 


ONLY  an  humble  cart 
T'hreading  the  careless  crowd, 

And  at  its  head, 

With  solemn  tread, 
An  aged  man  of  God. 

Only  a  coffin  of  pine, 

And  a  suit  of  Confederate  grey, 

To  shroud  the  form, 

All  wasted  and  worn, 
Of  the  soldier  who  died  to-day. 

Only  a  mound  of  earth, 
Heaped  roughly  upon  the  breast 

And  a  stake  at  the  head 

Of  the  narrow  bed 
Where  the  soldier  is  taking  his  rest 


556          THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Only  the  evening  wind 
Sends  forth  a  wailing  moan, 

And  a  violet  near, 

Drops  a  crystal  tear 
On  the  grave  so  newly  grown. 

Yet  some  one  will  watch  and  wail 
In  a  distant  Southern  home, 

Eager  to  meet 

The  coming  feet 
That  will  never,  never  come. 

Aye,  watch  till  the  eye  grows  dim, 
And  the  heart  waxes  faint  with  pain, 

Time  will  come  and  go 

In  its  ceaseless  flow, 
But  he  will  not  come  again. 

Unheeding  your  watch  he  sleeps, 
Unheeding  the  lapse  of  time ; 
And  the  grass  will  wave 
O'er  his  lonely  grave 
Ere  the  roses  reach  their  prime. 

Not  'n  the  ranks  he  fell, 
Where  the  soldier  is  proud  to  die, 
Where  the  muskets  flash, 
And  the  sabres  clash, 
At  the  ringing  battle-cry ; 

Alone  on  the  fever  couch, 
Where  disease  had  laid  him  apart ; 

The  icy  breath 

Of  relentless  death 
Chilled  the  fountain  of  his  heart 


JOHN   PEGRAM. 

Yet  a  Nation  of  Southern  hearts 
With  grateful  accord  will  say  : — 
"  A  Hero's  renown, 
And  a  martyr's  crown, 
For  the  soldier  who  died  to-day.7' 

MACON   CONFEDEEATE. 


BY   W.    GORDON    M  CABE. 

WHAT  shall  we  say  now  of  our  gentle  knight, 
Or  how  express  the  measure  of  our  woe, 

For  him  who  rode  the  foremost  in  the  fight, 
Whose  good  blade  flashed  so  far  amid  the  foe  ? 

Of  all  his  knightly  deeds  what  need  to  tell — 
That  good  blade  now  lies  fast  within  its  sheath  \ 

What  can  we  do  but  point  to  where  he  fell, 
And  like  a  soldier  met  a  soldier's  death  ? 

We  sorrow  not  as  those  who  have  no  hope ; 

For  he  was  pure  in  heart  as  brave  in  deed — 
God  pardon  us,  if  blind  with  tears,  we  grope, 

And  love  be  questioned  by  the  hearts  that  bleed. 

And  yet — oh  !  foolish  and  of  little  faith  ! 

We  cannot  choose  but  weep  our  useless  tears  ; 
We  loved  him  so  1  we  never  dreamed  that  death 

Would  dare  to  touch  him  in  his  brave  young  years  I 

*  Major  General,  C.  S.  Army.     Fell  at  the  head  of  his  Division, 
February,  6th,  1865. 


558          THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Ah  !  dear  browned  face,  so  fearless  and  so  bright  I 
As  kind  to  friend  as  thou  wert  stern  to  foe — 

No  more  we'll  see  thee  radiant  in  the  fight, 

The  eager  eyes, — the  flush  on  cheek  and  brow  1 

No  more  we'll  greet  the  lithe  familiar  form 

Amid  the  surging  smoke  with  deaf  ning  cheer : 

No  more  shall  soar  above  the  iron  storm 

Thy  ringing  voice  in  accents  sweet  and  clear. 

Aye  !  he  lias  fought  the  fight  and  passed  away — 
Our  grand  young  leader  smitten  in  the  strife  ; 

So  swift  to  seize  the  chances  of  the  fray. 
And  careless  only  of  his  noble  life. 

He  is  not  dead  but  sleepeth !     Well  we  know 
The  form  that  lies  to-day  beneath  the  sod ; 

Shall  rise  that  time  the  golden  bugles  blow, 

And  pour  their  music  through  the  courts  of  God. 

And  there  amid  our  great  heroic  dead, 

The  war-worn  sons  of  God  whose  work  is  done — 

His  face  shall  shine,  as  they,  with  stately  tread, 
In  grand  review  sweep  past  the  jasper  throne. 

Let  not  your  hearts  be  troubled  !     Few  and  brief 
His  days  were  here,  yet  rich  in  love  and  faith  ! 

Lord,  we  believe,  help  thou  our  unbelief, 

And  grant  Thy  servants,  such  a  life  and  death. 


JAMES   W.    BUKWELL.  559 


AGED   EIGHTEEN  YEARS. 

IN    MEMOEIAM. 

[The  following  sadly  beautiful  lines  are  the  votive  offering  of  a 
stricken  mother's  heart,  over  which  has  been  soothingly  shed,  like 
gentle  dew  upon  the  hills  of  Hermon,  the  sublime  grace  of  meek, 
Christian  resignation.  With  them,  it  is  requested  that  this  illustra 
tive  and  explanatory  sketch  of  the  young  hero,  from  the  gifted  pen  of 
Mrs.  Fanny  Downing,  be  published.—  Editress.'] 

"  When  the  spirit  that  animated  the  soldiers  of  the  entire  South 
was  so  glorious,  that  under  its  influence  each  one  of  them  became  a 
hero,  it  may  seem  useless  to  select  one  for  particular  consideration. 
Yet  in  the  case  of  the  gallant  boy,  who  forms  the  subject  of  these 
lines,  there  are  circumstances  of  such  touching  pathos,  as  to  make  it 
worthy  of  special  mention. 

"The  son  of  KEV.  KOBEET  and  MRS.  M.  A.  BURWELL,  Principals 
of  the  Charlotte,  North  Carolina,  Female  Institute — he  presented 
from  his  earliest  childhood  that  rare  assemblage  of  high  intellectual 
gifts,  loveliness  of  character  and  remarkable  personal  beauty,  which 
seems  the  peculiar  portion  of  those  who  are  only  lent  to  earth,  and 
then  transplanted  to  a  more  congenial  clime. 

"  At  the  age  of  sixteen  he  passed  from  his  collegiate  studies  to  the 
service  of  his  country.  In  that  service  he  continued  with  untiring 
devotion — serving  in  company  with  five  brave  brothers  for  over  two 
years.  In  the  last  two  years,  one  of  these  brothers  has  given  his  life 
a  sacrifice  to  the  Southern  cause,  and  a  third  has  come  home  to  fight 
life's  ]ast  battle,  deprived  of  the  strength  of  a  good  right  arm. 

"  In  the  early  morning  of  the  13th  of  October,  1864,  while  fighting 
in  the  battle  of  Cedar  Run,  James  Burwell  was  kitted  instantly.  Sim 
ple  seeming  words,  yet  fraught  with  a  weight  of  agony ?  which  will 
touch  a  responsive  chord  in  the  hearts  of  unnumbered  Southern 
mothers,  who  have  learned  their  true  and  bitter  meaning. 

' '  The  portion  of  the  battle  in  which  young  Burwell  was  engaged, 
took  place  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  farm-house  of  Mr.  Hatch 
ings,  near  Middletown,  .Virginia  ;  and  after  it  was  over,  Mrs.  Ritch- 


560  THE  SOUTHERN  AMABANTH. 

ings  and  her  children  walked  over  the  scene  of  conflict  in  the  hope 
of  rendering  some  assistance.  Attracted  by  the  delicate  beauty  of 
the  young  soldier,  and  thrilled  with  pity  at  the  frantic  grief  of  his 
brothers  who  were  hanging  over  him — one  of  them  wishing  for 
"mother's  sake,"  that  "  I  could  take  his  place  ;" — she  singled  him  as 
the  object  of  her  special  care. 

' '  He  was  removed  to  the  house,  and  so  soon  as  the  necessary 
arrangements  could  be  made,  was  interred  in  the  garden  adjoining. 
From  that  day  his  grave  was  tended  with  a  mother's  care,  and  every 
act  that  a  warm  and  generous  heart  could  suggest,  was  performed  in 
guarding  the  sacred  spot,  in  honor  of  him  who  slept  so  softly  there, 
and  of  the  cause  to  which  he  had  given  his  life. 

How  many  such  graves  rise  through  all  the  length  and  breadth  of 
the  dear  South  !  They  are  the  only  monuments  she  may  claim.  In 
the  day  that  God  makes  up  his  jewels,  he  will  visit  them  all!" 


jl 

>— x  x ; 

IT  seems  to  me,  though  the  sun  shines  on, 
His  warmth  and  lustre  are  dimmed  and  gone ; 
For  the  light  of  my  life-time,  paled  and  fled, 
"When  they  told  me  my  precious  boy  was  dead  I 
{<Dead  !"     My  beautiful  one,  my  own, 
Who,  to  my  he^rt-strings  so  close  had  grown, 
That  when  he  fell  in  the  fearful  fray, 
Part  of  my  being  was  wrenched  away  I 
Was  it  for  this,  that  I  toiled  so  long — 
Waiting  and  hoping,  so  brave  and  strong — 
Patiently  toiling  from  year  to  year — 
Circling  existence  in  one  set  sphere- 
Heedless  of  labor,  and  care,  and  pain — 
Measuring  my  loss  by  my  children's  gain — 
Folding  them  close  in  my  sheltering  arms, 
Praying  "  Our  Father  " — In  deathly  harms, 

*  Special  contribution. 


A  MOTHER'S  LAMENT  FOB  HER  BOY.     561 

Mine  the  sorrow — theirs  be  the  bliss — 
Was  it  for  this ?     Was  it  all  for  this? 
Dead — in  the  flower  and  flush  of  his  youth ! 
Gone  in  his  dutiful  love  and  his  truth  ! — 
His  Country  called — at  her  frantic  cry 
He  sprang  to  her  bleeding  side — to  die  I 

Truthful,  and  noble,  and  pure  and  good, 

Every  drop  of  his  young  heart's  blood, 

Oozing  in  death  on  her  sacred  sod, 

Pleaded  that  Country's  Cause  with  God  ! 

From  the  first  hour  that  his  baby  eyes 

Smiled  on  my  bosom  in  soft  surprise 

Till  Death  darkened  his  youthful  brow, 

He  never  caused  me  one  pang,  till  now  ! 

Oh  !  if  his  last,  low  fleeting  breath, 

Wafting  swift  through  the  gates  of  death, 

Had  sighed  in  my  ear  with  the  tender  strain : 

"  Mother,  I  love  you  !"     Methinks  that  my  pain 

Might  have  been  less ;  for  now  when  I  yield 

To  the  mad  thought ;— "  on  the  battle  field 

In  all  its  horrible  carnage  and  rout, 

The  life  of  my  precious  child  went  out  " — 

Can  any  solace  a  peace  impart  ? 

Is  there  a  balm  for  my  breaking  heart  ? 

Yes ; — oh,  my  God !  though  thy  billows  roll 
Bitter  and  deep  o'er  my  shrinking  soul, 
Every  wave  of  the  awful  sea 
Washes  me  nearer  to  Heaven  and  thee ! 
Father,  Almighty  !  thy  will  be  done  I 
Even  my  cherished,  idolized  son 


562  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Unto  THY  summons  I  can  resign, 
Strengthened  and  stayed  by  Thy  grace  divine  I 

Far  in  his  lonely  grave  he  lies, 
Under  the  arch  of  Virginia's  skies, 
Stretched  like  a  child  on  his  nurse's  breast, 
Quietly  sleeping  in  peaceful  rest. 
Stranger  hands  dug  his  narrow  cell, 
But  tender  tears  on  his  coffin  fell  ; 
And  kindly  hearts  guard  his  patriot  dust, 
.     Keeping  his  grave  as  a  "  sacred  trust :" — 
Oh  !  if  his  mother's  fervent  prayer 
Compasses  blessings  rich  and  rare, 
Heaven's  best  gifts  on  their  lives  will  be  shed 
For  their  loving  care  of  my  precious  dead ! 
Shall  I  remove  from  their  tenderness — 
Their  valued  charge — that  the  wretchedness 
Of  my  stricken  spirit  may  seem  less  deep 
To  see  his  grave,  and  over  it  weep  ? — 
For  kindest  friends  still,  your  vigil  keep 
Over  my  child  in  his  dreamless  sleep  : — 
Ne'er  shall  his  tomb,  from  your  charge  depart 
For  his  real  grave  is  his  MOTHER'S  HEART  ! 


11$  fpfto  to  ifce 


BY  THOMAS    DUNN    ENGLISH,    M.    D. 


"WE  remember  at  the  Wilderness  a  gallant  Mississippian  had 
fallen,  and  at  night,  just  before  burying  him,  there  came  a  letter 
from  her  he  loved  best.  One  of  the  group  around  his  body  —  a 
minister  —  whose  tenderness  was  womanly,  broke  the  silent  tearful 
ness  with  which  he  saw  the  dead  letter  ;  he  took  it  and  laid  it  upon 


THE  LETTER  TO  THE  DEAD.          563 

the  breast  of  him  whose  heroic  heart  was  still :  'Bury  it  with  him. 
He  will  see  it  when  he  wakes. '  It  was  the  sublimest  sentence  of  his 
funeral  service." — N.  0.  Picayune. 

COMES  the  letter  from  a  mother? 

Are  a  sister's  longings  there  ? 
Or  the  fondness  of  another, 

Loved  and  loving,  young  and  fair  ? 
Seek  not  now  to  know  the  writer, 

Seek  not  whence  or  why  it  came ; 
As  he  died,  his  dimmed  eyes  saw  her ; 

As  he  died  he  breathed  her  name. 
It  has  come  o'er  hills  and  valleys, 

Crossed  o'er  rivers,  passed  o'er  lakes  : 
"  Bury  it  upon  his  bosom, 

He  will  see  it  when  he  wakes." 
Bury  the  dead  with  the  letter  unread, 

There  to  remain, 
Till  the  soldier  awakes  from  his  slumber, 

To  join  in  the  battle  again. 

Ah  !  but  never  more  to  battle 

He  will  march  by  beat  of  drum ; 
Nevermore  when  fight  is  over 

Sigh  for  gentle  peace  to  come  ; 
Nevermore  to  roll-call  answer. 

Nevermore  will  pace  his  round, 
Keeping  watch  o'er  sleeping  comrades 

Strewn  upon  the  chilly  ground ; 
Nevermore  the  light  words  utter 

While  his  heart  with  sadness  aches  ; 
"  Bury  it  upon  his  bosom, 

He  will  see  it  when  he  wakes." 


564  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Bury  it  deep  with  the  soldier  to  sleep  : 

There  let  it  lie, 

While  the  green  grass  grows  o'er  the  sleeper,, 
And  the  world  goes  hurrying  by. 

She  who  lingered  as  she  wrote  it 

O'er  each  tender  word  she  penned, 
She  perchance  will  find  her  sorrow 

"With  some  later  lover  end. 
But  for  him  those  words  of  loving 

May  survive  when  time  is  o'er, 
And,  though  she  forget  her  fondness  ? 

Greet  him  on  the  further  shore, 
Cross  his  arms  and  close  his  eyelids, 

'Tis  his  slumber  that  he  takes  ; 
"  Bury  it  upon  his  bosom, 

He  will  see  it  when  he  wakes." 
Lay  him  to  rest  with  the  scroll  on  his  breasty 

There,  in  the  tomb, 
Till  the  startled  dead  shall  awaken 

At  the  terrible  day  of  doom. 
NORTHERN  MONTHLY,  Newark,  N.  J. 


GEORGE  WYTHE  RANDOLPH.          565 


BY   JOHN   B.    THOMPSON. 


I. 

AND  is  he  dead,  whom  we  have  loved  so  well  — 
The  sailor,  soldier,  scholar,  statesman,  dead  ! 
And  it  remains  that  we  shall  rightly  tell 
His  virtues,  and  the  crowning  grace  that  shed 
A  tender  radiance  over  all  his  story  — 
A  radiance  deepening  at  the  end  to  glory. 
And  trailing  light  along  the  darksome  way 
By  which  he  passed  to  everlasting  day. 
And  he  is  gone,  we  shall  not  see  him  more, 
Nor  hear  him  yet  in  that  familiar  strain, 
Wherewith  he  held  ns  captive  heart  and  brain, 
Of  gentler  fancies  and  of  wisest  lore  : 
We  still  sit  listening,  though  the  voice  is  hushed, 
.Nor  ignorantly  hold  our  loss  less  great, 
That  his  is  a  translation  to  the  skies, 
From  all  the  thickening  sorrows  of  the  state  — 
A  land  impoverished  and  a  people  crushed  — 
That  having  borne  the  cross,  he  gains  the  prize  1 
Of  little  faith  we  are,  that  we  should  weep 
When  God  the  Father  calls  his  children  hence 
With  love  unanswered  by  our  mortal  sense  — 
For  so  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep. 

II. 

Our  friend  was  of  a  lofty  house  and  line, 
And  owned,  as  heritage,  an  honored  name  ; 


566  THE   SOUTHERN    AMARANTH. 

And  with  it,  goodlier  legacy  than  this, 
The  love  of  all  things  lovely,  noble,  true  r 
"Wisdom  with  goodness,  did  in  him  combine^ 
Yet  such  a  modesty,  most  rare,  w  as  his  ; 
And  so  apart  he  lived  from  noisy  fame, 
And  held  so  cheaply,  he  to  duty  vowed 
As  ever  only  may  the  wise  and  few, 
The  plauditory  clamor  of  the  crowd ; 
Content  to  do  the  task,  to  bear  the  burden, 
Careless  to  win  the  empty,  earthly  guerdon, 
His  greatness  might  have  blossomed  all  unseen,. 
Unrecognized,  save  in  the  narrow  view 
Of  home,  had  not  the  tumult  of  the  time, 
And  sore  calamity  of  common  weal, 
Called  him  to  action  on  a  stage  sublime, 
And  to  his  life  affixed  the  enduring  seal : 
But  centered  in  the  full,  intensest  light 
That  fiercest  blaze  of  war  across  the  land, 
Wherein  your  little  nature  looked  so  mean — 
Your  party  hero  but  a  paltry  thing. 
He  rose  full  statured  to  that  kingly  height 
That  we,  who  had  not  known  him  for  a  king, 
But  deemed  him  great,  and  worthy  of  command^,. 
Kejoiced  nor  marvelled  at  his  renown ; 
Till  wasted  with  his  work  he  laid  it  down. 
Worn  out  with  petty  rivalries  and  strife, 
And,  bending  mostly  'neath  the  country's  care, 
Within  the  inner  temple  of  his  life 
Withdrew  himself  as  to  a  house  of  prayer, 
Arid  walked  therein  serenely  to  the  close, 
Through  ever-present  suffering,  yet  beguiled 
By  tenderest  sympathy  and  fondest  looks — 
By  sweet  idolatry  of  art  and  books, 


GEORGE  WYTHE  RANDOLPH.  567 

And  nature  in  far  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
And  b j  the  love  of  hers  who  loved  him  best ; 
Thus  gently  solaced,  chastened,  reconciled, 
In  meek  submission  to  the  chastening  rod, 
But  ever  yearning  for  diviner  rest, 
Nearer  he  drew  unto  the  peace  of  God 
Which  passeth  understanding,  richly  blest 
With  earnest  of  an  infinite  repose, 
When  death  at  last  should  kindly  set  him  free. 

Ill 

Virginia  mourns  him,  and  with  happier  fates, 
Warriors  and  statesmen  might  have  borne  his  pall ; 
And  had  his  been  a  public  funeral, 
Lamented-  by  a  league  of  sorrowing  States, 
With  eulogy  and  anthem,  trumpet's  wail, 
And  pealing  guns  upon  the  evening  breeze, 
And  flags  had  drooped  half-mast  in  distant  seas, 
Where  he,  the  sailor  boy,  had  braved  the  gale ; 
And  we,  when  time  all  jealousies  had  stilled, 
Had  placed  his  marble  image  in  a  niche 
Of  that  majestic  fane,  with  sculptures  rich, 
And  soaring  dome,  that  we  shall  never  build ; 
But  now  his  image  in  our  hearts  is  shrined, 
And  what  is  mortal  of  the  man  consigned, 
In  all  the  sanctity  of  private  grief, 
To  mother  earth,  amid  ancestral  tombs, 
Within  those  hallowed  precincts  which  contain 
The  dust  of  Monticello's  mighty  dead ; 
There  would  I  stray,  alone  with  reverent  tread, 
As  o'er  the  mountain,  spring  her  joyous  reign 
Eeviews  with  all  her  beauteous  tints  and  blooms, 


568  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

And  April's  whisper  stirs  the  tender  leaf — 
There,  softly  stray  as  in  some  minster  dim, 
"Where  saints  and  martyrs  slept  beneath  the  nave, 
To  call  up  gentlest  memories  of  him, 
And  lay  the  earliest  violets  on  his  grave. 


BY   PAUL   H.    HAYNE. 


I  AM  sitting  alone  and  weary, 

By  the  hearth  in  my  darkened  room, 
And  the  low  wind's  miserere, 

Makes  sadder  the  midnight  gloom. 
Methinks  that  the  dead  are  around  me  ! 

I  thrill  while  the  phantoms  moan, 
For  the  spell  of  a  dream  hath  bound  me, 

As  I  muse  by  my  hearth  alone. 

'Tis  a  vision  of  ghastly  faces, 

All  pallid  and  worn  with  pain. 
Where  the  splendor  of  manhood's  graces 

Gives  place  to  a  gory  stain. 
In  a  wild  and  weird  procession 

They  sweep  by  my  startled  eyes, 
And  stern  with  their  Fate's  fruition, 

Seem  melting  in  blood-red  skies. 

Have  they  come  from  the  shores  supernal ; 

Have  they  passed  from  the  spirit's  goal, 
'Keath  the  veil  of  the  life  eternal, 

To  dawn  on  mv  shrinking  soul  ? 


OUR   MARTYES.  569 

Have  they  turned  from  the  choiring  Angels, 

Aghast  at  the  woe  and  death, 
That  War  with  his  dark  Evangels 

Hath  wrought  in  the  loved  of  earth  ? 

Vain  dreams  !  from  the  far  off  mountains 

They  lie  where  the  dew  mists  weep, 
And  the  murmur  of  mournful  fountains 

Breathes  over  their  painless  sleep  ; 
On  the  breast  of  the  lonely  meadows 

Safe,  safe,  from  the  despot's  will, 
They  rest  in  the  star-lit  shadows, 

And  their  brows  are  white  and  still. 

Alas  !  for  the  martyred  heroes, 

Cut  down  in  their  golden  prime, 
In  a  strife  with  the  brutal  Neroes 

Who  blacken  the  front  of  Time ! 
For  them  is  the  voice  of  wailing 

And  the  sweet  blush-rose  departs. 
Prom  the  cheek  of  the  maiden  paling 

O'er  the  wreck  of  their  broken  hearta 

And  alas  !  for  the  vanished  glory 

Of  a  thousand  household  spells ! 
And  alas  !  for  the  tearful  story 

Of  the  spirit's  fond  farewells ! 
By  the  flood,  on  the  field,  in  the  forest, 

Our  bravest  have  yielded  their  breath, 
But  the  shafts  that  have  smitten  the  sorest, 

Were  launched  by  a  viewless  Death. 

Oh,  Thou !  that  hast  charms  of  healing 
Descend  on  a  widowed  land, 


570  THE   SOUTHERN  AMAKANTH. 

And  bind  o'er  the  wounds  of  feeling 
The  balms  of  Thy  mystic  hand  ! 

Till  the  hearts  that  lament  and  languish, 
Kenewed  by  the  touch  divine, 

From  the  depths  of  a  mortal  anguish 
Shall  rise  to  the  Calm  of  Thine  I 

SOUTHERN  ILLUSTRATED  NEWS. 


BY    M.    A.    JE1STN1NGS,    ALABAMA. 

"  Another  star  sliines  now  on  high." 

ANOTHEK  ray  of  light  hath  fled,  another  Southern 
brave 

Hath  fallen  in  his  country's  cause,  and  found  a  lau 
reled  grave — 

Hath  fallen,  but  his  deathless  name  shall  live  when 
stars  have  set, 

For  noble  Cleburne,  thou  art  one,  this  world  will  ne'er 
forget. 

'Tis  true  thy  warm  heart  beats  no  more,  that  on  thy  no 
ble  head 

Azreal  placed  his  icy  hand,  and  thou  art  with  the  dead ! 

The  glancing  of  thine  eyes  are  dim,  no  more  will  they 
be  bright 

Until  they  ope  in  Paradise,  with  clearer,  heavenlier 
light. 

No  battle  news  disturbs  thy  rest,  upon  the  sun  bright 
shore, 


CLEBUENE.  571 

No  clarion  voice  awakens  thee,  on  earth  to   wrestle 

more, 

No  tramping  steed,  no  wary  foe  bids  thee  awake,  arise, 
For   thou    art  in  the  angel  world,   beyond  the  starry 

skies. 

Brave  Cleburne,  dream  in  thy  lowly  bed,  with  pulse 
less  deadened  heart ; 

Calm,  calm  and  sweet,  0  warrior  rest!  thou  well  hast 
borne  thy  part, 

And  now  a  glory-wreath  for  thee,  the  angels  singing- 
twine, 

A  glory-wreath,  not  of  the  earth,  but  made  by  hands 
divine. 

A  long  farewell !  we  give   thee  up  with  all  thy  bright 

renown  ; 
A  chieffain  here  on  earth  is  lost,  in  heaven  an  angel 

found. 
Above  thy  grave  a  wail  is  heard — a  nation  mourns  her 

dead ; . 
A  nobler  for  the   South  ne'er   died — a  braver  never 

bled! 

A  last  farewell ! — how  can  we  speak  that  bitter  word 

"  FAKE  WELL  !" 
The  anguish  of  our  bleeding  hearts  vain  words  may 

never  tell. 
Sleep  on,  sleep  on,  to  God  we  give  our  chieftain  in  his 

might ; 
And  weeping  feel   he  lives  on  high,  where  comes  no 

sorrow's  night 


572  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


BY   COL.    HAWKINS,   C.   S.   A. 

LINES  written  on  the  wish  expressed  by  him,  that  his  body  should 
not  be  carried  to  the  Shenandoah  Valley  until  his  mother  could 
write  upon  his  tomb,  "He  died  in  defence  of  his  country." 

MAKE,  not  my  grave  in  the  valley  yet, 
'Neath  the  sod  of  the  alien  let  it  be, 
Till  my  mother  can  write  with  tears  of  pride, 
On  my  tomb  these  simple  words,  "He  died, 
Dear  land,  defending  thee  !" 

Not  there  where  the  blackened  homesteads  are, 

And  the  tokens  of  deathless  wrong. 
Not  the  place  where  a  pall  is  upon  the  land, 
All  scourged  by  sword  and  scarred  by  brand, 
And  hushed  is  every  song. 

Not  there  where  the  church-yard  turf  is  torn, 
By  the  hoof  of  a  vile  and  ruthless  foe, 

Shall  his  grave  be  made ;  for  a  Northman's  hate 

The  sacred  spot  would  desecrate, 
A  fiendish  wrath  to  show. 

In  days  of  Eome  as  dangers  fled, 

When  friendly  Curtis  leaped  to  serve, 
The  eager  votaries  sought  to  share, 
And  blessed  with  garlands  rich  and  rare 
The  hero's  honored  grave  ! 

But  he  more  grand  and  noble  still, 
Uncheered  by  loud  acclaim, 


SONNET.  57$ 


In  the  might  of  his  undaunted  soul 

Drank  freely  sorrows  keenest  dole, 

And  faced  the  brink  of  shame. 

Yet  ere  he  plunged  the  angels  swift 

Along  their  earthly  path  way  trod, 
They  smote  away  the  bitter  cup — 
And  bore  the  star-crowned  martyr  up, 
On  their  pinions  back  to  God. 

And  nature  mourns  that  gallant  heart. 
For  there  upon  his  Northern  tomb, 
As  semblances  of  nature's  love 
The  flowers  of  spring  shall  wave  above 
His  ashes  in  their  bloom. 


ON  THE   PRESENT  CONDITION  OF   THE  SOUTH. 

BY  PAUL  H.    HAYNE. 

SHE  lies  before  thee  a  pale,  pulseless  Land ; 
No  more  her  great  eyes  burn  with  hopeful  lights  ; 
About  her  worn  and  helmless  droop  her  Knights, 
A  shattered  weapon  in  each  dead  right  hand : 
The  trumpets  that  aroused  that  warrior  band 
To  pluck  fresh  honor  from  an  hundred  fights, 
Seem  distant  now  as  echoes  up  the  heights 
Of  fabulous  Legend  borne  to  realms  unscanned  ; 
Yet  fearest  thou  this  Queen  Titan  from  her  rest 


574  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

May  start  whilst  thou  art  slumbering  ? — sound  again 
Her  ringing  battle-cry  o'er  mount  and  plain, 
With  Conquest  blazing  on  her  fiery  crest  ? 
Aye !  SUCH  thy  dread  !  hence  to  all  Earth's  disdain, 
Thy  ruthless  sword  still  gores  her  prostrate  breast ! 


OF   SMITH   CALVERT — PLATTE   COUNTY,    MISSOURI. 

BY  VIRGINIA.  MADISON.       (MISS   S.  A.    BEOCK.) 

SPRING  breezes  were  fanning  the  wild  western  prairies, 
And  from   deep    earthy   beds    were    awaking    the 

flowers ; 

Verdant  meadows  were  gay  with  the  buttercup's  blos 
soms, 

And  the  golden-hued  dandelions,  marking  the  hours. 
The  hyacinth's  bells  with  rich  perfume  was  laden, 
And  the  snow-drop  was  bowed  with  the  dew  of  the 

night ; 
The  mild  blue-eyed  violet  peeped  out  'mid  its  green 

leaves, 

And  soft  blushing  roses  were  ensheathed  from  the 
sight. 

Nature's  censer  was  teeming  with  odors  commingled, 
Of  the  bright  flowery  treasures  of  garden  and  field, 

Laughing  streams  prattled  on  in  a  gay,  joyous  measure, 
And  mirrored  the  beauties  that  winter  concealed. 


IN  MEMOKY.  575 

Nature's  grand  leafy  temple  with  music  was  choral, 
Rare  melodies  were  trilled  from  tree-top  and  bough  ; 

In  the  dark,   grey   old  forests,  bright   songsters   were 

sporting, 
And  echoes,  like  spirits  sighed  softly  and  low. 

In  the  emigrant's  cot  all  was  peaceful  and  happy, 

His  gun  on  the  antlers  hung  over  the  door ; 
When  at  noontide  he  rests  from  his  chase -in  the  wood 
land, 

And  soft  waving  shadows  danced  over  the  floor. 
From  his  window  he  gazed — and  he  saw  the  corn  grow 
ing, 
And  the  wheat  on  his  hill-sides,  looked  tender  and 

green ; 
His  wants — they  were  simple — contentment  smiled  on 

him, 
His  board — it  was  frugal — but  there,  plenty  was  seen. 

Then  came  a  stern  mandate,  to  rouse  him  from  dream 
ing, 

And  visions  of  daring  his  strong  spirit  stirred ; 
"  To  arms !  for  the  foemen  are  rising  around  you, 

To  arms !"  was  the  cry,  that  in  wonder  he  heard. 
He  was  old,  but  he  looked  on  the  bright  boy  beside 

him, 

And  turned  to  the  mother — she'd  a  part  in  the  cup, 
"  My  husband,  why  doubt  me," — she  answered  un trem 
bling — 
"  For  our  country  if  needful,  our  boy,  we'll  give  up  !" 

"  Thy  wife  is  no  coward,  nor  thy  mother,  my  darling, 
In  thy  veins  runs  a  rich  stream,  from  grandsire  and 
son. 


576  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Go !  I  would  not  detain  thee,  tho'  thy  life  be  the  for 
feit, 
Do  thy  duty  I  God  help  thee  !  till  our    Cause — it  is 

won." 
His  banjo  he  strung  and  as  the  bright  sun  was  setting, 

The  glad  strains  of  Dixie  stole  over  the  strings  , 
And  the  young  soldier's  pulses  with  ardor  beat  wildly  r 
As  the  courser's  that  over  the  grand  prairie  springs 

Only  once  did  he  meet  them,  the  foeman  he  sought  for, 
Once  only — when  there  burst  forth  his  heart  cheering 

cry; 

"Hurrah;  they  are  vanquished!  oh  see  them  retreat 
ing, 
Hurrah !"   rang  his  glad  shout,  "  how  wildly  they 

fly!" 
The  battle  was  over  but  a  foeman  more  vengeful, 

Tracked  the  young  soldier's  march,  as  he  toiled  on 

his  way ; 

In  his  veins  he  infused  a  dread  subtle  poison, 
And  scorching  to  madness,  all  prostrate  he  lay. 

Far  away  from  the  friends  that  cherished  him  fondly, 

To  his  fever  racked  fancy,  sweet  visions  would  come ; 
"When  his  tongue  could  not  utter  his   heart's  dearest 

wishes, 
His  hand  pointed  backward,  and  his  eye — "  Take  me 

home !" 
"  Oh,  there  let  me  lie  where  the  rivulet  sparkling ; 

In  its  wild,  merry  music  my  spirit  may  hear ; 
Where  the  home-forest's  requiem  can  wail  o'er  my 

dreaming — 

Let  me  lie  'mid  the  scenes,  that  my  soul  holds  so- 
dear." 


THE  DYING   SOLLIEK.  577 

Alas !  far  from  home,  from  friends  and  from  kindred, 

The  young  soldier  perished,  and  sleeps  his  last  sleep ; 
Alone,  and  forgotten  ?     No  ;  a  cordon  of  angels 

Watch  and   guard  o'er  his  slumbers  will  evermore 

keep. 
Ne'er  again  shall  the  war-bugle's  echoes  arouse  him, 

Never  more  his  heart  thrill  with  rapture  or  pain  ; 
His  dreams  are  unbroken — "He  has   fought  his   last 
battle, 

No  sound  can  awake  him  to  glory  again." 

The  emigrant's  cottage  is  quiet  and  lonely, 

The  young  soldier's  banjo  hangs  mute  on  the  wall ; 
His  laugh  no  more  lightens  the  eventide  circle, 

Nor  his  footsteps  bring  joy  to  a  fond  mother's  call. 
His  father  is  bowed  and  his  head  is  more  hoary, 

A  sigh  rends  his  breast,  he  thinks  of  him,  gone ! 
And  a  tear  sometimes  glistens  upon  his  grey  eyelids, 

But  his  heart  whispers, — "  Father,  thy  great  will  be 
done !" 

METBOPOUTAN  KECOED. 


Affectionately  inscribed  to  Lizzie  A.  Christie. 

BY  MATILDA  EDWABDS,  YEKFINIA. 

[CoL  Christie,  of  North  Carolina,  fell  mortally  wounded  at  the 
battle  of  Gettysburg,  while  gallantly  leading  his  men  against  the 
enemy's  breastworks.  He  was  taken  to  Winchester,  where  he  was 
nursed  tenderly  until  his  death.  He  longed  to  see  his  young  wife, 


OP  THE 


578  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

his  darling  Lizzie,  but  when  she  reached  Winchester  he  was  dead. 
His  last  words  were,  "  Kiss  me  for  Lizzie."  —  Extract  of  a  tetter.} 

"  The  bravest  are  the  truest, 
The  loving  are  the  daring." 

I  AM  dying  —  is  she  coming  ?  —  throw  the  window  open 

wide, 
Is  she  coming?     Oh!  I  love  her  more  than  all  the 

world  beside  — 
In  her  young  and  tender  beauty,  must,  oh  !  must  she 

feel  this  loss  ? 
Saviour,  hear  my  poor  petition,  teach  her  how  to  bear 

this  cross. 

Help  her  to  be  calm  and  patient  when  I  moulder  in  the 

dust, 
Let  her  say  and  feel,  my  Father,  that  thy  ways  are  true 

and  just. 
Is  she  coming  ?     Go  and  listen  —  I  would  see  her  face 

once  more  ; 
I  would  hear  her  speaking  to  me  ere  life's  fevered  dream 

is  o'er  ; 

I  would  fold  her  to  my  bosom,  look  into  her  soft  bright 


I  would  tell  her  how  I  love  her,  kiss  her  once  before  I 

die. 
Is  she  coming?     Oh!   'tis   evening,    and  my   darling 

comes  not  still. 
Lift  the  curtain  —  it  grows  darker  —  it  is  sunset  on  the 

hill. 
All  the  evening  dews  are  falling  —  I  am  cold  —  the  light 

is  gone, 


THE   DYING   SOLDEEK.  579 

Is  she  coming  ?  Softly,  softly  comes  death's  silent  foot 
steps  on ; 

I  am  going — come  and  kiss  me — kiss  me  for  my  darling 
wife; 

Take  for  her  my  parting  blessing — take  the  last  fond 
kiss  of  life. 


Tell  her  I  will  wait  to  greet  her  where  the  good  and 
lovely  are, 

In  that  home  untouched  by  sorrow,  tell  her  she  must 
meet  me  there. 

Is  she  coming  ?  Lift  the  curtain — let  me  see  the  fall 
ing  light, 

Oh !  I  want  to  live  to  see  her,  surely  she  will  come  to 
night  ; 

Surely  ere  the  daylight  dieth,  I  will  fold  her  to  my 
breast  ; 

With  her  head  upon  my  bosom,  calmly  I  could  sink  to 
rest; 

It  is  hard  to  die  without  her ;  look,  I  think  she's  com 
ing  now ; 

I  can  almost  feel  her  kisses  on  my  faded  cheek  and 
brow; 

I  can  almost  hear  her  whisper,  feel  her  breath  upon  my 

cheek — 
Hark !  I  hear  the  front  door  open  ;  is  she  coming  ?  did 

she  speak? 
No.     "W  ell  drop  the  curtain  softly — I  will  see  her  face 

no  more, 


580  THE   SOUTHEKN  AMABANTH. 

Till  I  see  it  smiling  on  me  on  the  bright  and  better 

shore. 
Tell  her  she  must  come  and  meet  me  in  that  Eden  land 

of  light ; 
Tell  her  I'll  be  waiting  for  her  where  there  is  no  deathy 

no  night ; 
Tell  her  that  I  called  her  darling,  blessed  her  with  m  j 

dying  breath ; 
Come  and  kiss  me  for  my  Lizzie — tell  her  love  out- 

liveth  death. 
RICHMOND,  March  23.  • 


BY  ELEANOE  F  AIRMAN.       (MISS  MAKY  SHEFFEY,    VIKGINIA.) 

No  roll  of  drums,  no  squadron's  tread, 

Within  this  realm  of  death 
Is  heard.     The  wild  and  warlike  note 
No  more  will  swell  the  bugle's  throat, 

Hushed  is  its  clarion  breath. 
Its  echoes  e'en,  once  loud  and  shrill, 
Have  faintly  died  upon  the  hill, 
Above  our  dead. 

The  leaves  drift  rustling  o'er  each  mound 

Where  now  the  heroes  rest ; 
And  winds  unchained,  their  dirges  chaunt 
Where  erst  we  saw  the  banners  flaunt ; 

The  glow  of  battle's  crest. 
But  ne'er  again  will  Autumn's  sigh 
Arouse  the  braves  who  stirless  lie 
In  Southern  ground. 


THE   CONFEDEKATE   DEAD.  581 

The  morn  and  noon  of  life  have  fled, 

And  left  the  starless  night. 
Our  sunlit  skies  have  sunless  grown, 
And  moons  wax  faint,  where  once  they  shone 

With  spells  of  weird  light. 
The  darkness  fell  when  Stonewall  slept, 
When  Kachel  bowed  and  wailing  wept 
To  call  him  dead. 


•O,  Death  1  His  wine  of  life  was  red. 

And  thou  wast  crimsoned  o'er, 
Ere  it  had  swelled  above  the  brink 
Of  his  bright  well  of  joy.     Why  drink — 

When  drunk  with  human  gore  ? 
The  precious  boon  we  craved  ;  but  thou 
Hast  stamped  thy  signet  on  his  brow, 
And  he  is  dead. 

The  cypress,  too,  o'er  Bartow  waves, 

And  Bee  sleeps  close  beside. 
But  Southrons  o'er  their  slumbers  mourn, 
For  ah !  they  know  two  souls  were  borne 

Out  with  the  ebbing  tide 
That  left  two  hearts  a  patriot's  rest, 
And  on  Manassas'  bloodstained  breast 
Two  priceless  graves. 

Ah  !  ne'er  again  will  Ashbtfs  blade 

Flash  in  the  noonday  sun. 
With  /Stuart's  now,  'tis  dim  with  rust, 
And  on  the  hilt  is  gathered  dust 

That  tells  its  work  is  done. 


582  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

The  sword  no  more  will  leave  its  sheatlt,, 
But  ne'er  the  chieftain's  laurel  wreath 
Shall  wilt,  or  fade. 

On  Shiloh's  plains,  where  Johnston  fell^ 

The  life-tides  riot  ran. 
Weep — brave  Sydney's  life  is  o'er, 
Weep — for  he  will  rise  no  more 

To  lead  the  battle  van. 

Those  red  streams  o'er  his  death-couch  rolled^,, 
Though  when  he  fell  we  sadly  tolled 
No  funeral  bell. 

Ehodes  and  Gordon  !     O'er  their  graves 

Our  tears  must  silent  fall ; 
Their  names  with  Garland's  are  entwined, 
But  low  their  forms  with  Gregg's  we  find, 

Enfolded  in  death's  pall. 
Floyd  and  Morgan,  Jones  and  Marr — 
Ah,  well  we  know  that  many  a  star 
Sunk  with  our  braves ! 

The  privates  of  the  South !     Our  dead 

Who  left  no  name  or  story, 
Save  that  upon  th'  historic  page, 
Of  braver  deeds  than  Grecian  sage 

E'er  dreamed,  or  Sparta's  glory, 
They  fell  beneath  the  foeman's  steel, 
And  crushed  and  mourning  now  we  kneel: 
Where  they  have  bled. 

Their  blood  was  poured  upon  the  land — 

A  nation's  holocaust ! 
On  Freedom's  altars,  lo  !  the  stain  I 
But  ah  !  the  sacrifice  was  vain — 


THE   CONFEDERATE  DEAD.  583 

Our  cause  and  they  are  lost ! 
In  vain  we  mourn  the  gallant  dead ; 
In  vain  the  tears  that  dew  each  bed 
Of  this  brave  band. 

And  they,  the  early  lost !     The  dead 

With  Wise  and  Hampton  lying. 
War's  empty  chalice  fell  away 
When  they  were  laid  low  on  the  clay, 

Stricken,  bleeding,  dying. 
Youth  still  made  glorious  each  fair  brow ; 
But,  Southrons,  mourn,  for  they  are  now 
Your  priceless  dead. 

Our  dead  !     Our  gems !     The  Kohinoors 

That  set  the  Southern  crown. 
E'en  through  the  sod  their  glories  flash ; 
Though  bloodstained  from  the  battle's  crash, 

We  laid  them  sadly  down. 
We  may  not  weep  in  wild  despair, 
Though  some  lie  casketless  and  bare 
On  Northern  moors. 

None  are  unnumbered  or  unknown — • 

We  count  them  o'er  and  o'er — 
As  captives  count  the  gleams  of  light 
That  steal  upon  their  dungeon's  night 

To  star  the  prison  floor. 
Each  tomb  is  still  a  people's  trust — 
Forgotten  is  no  Southern  dust, 

All  is  our  own. 
MOUNTAIN  HOME,  SOTJTHWESTEBN  VIRGINIA. 


584  THE  SOUTHERN  AMABANTH. 


tlw       ti  01 


(At  tlie  Montgomery  White  Sulplmr  Springs  in  Virginia,  there  was, 
during  the  war,  a  Confederate  Hospital,  and  in  the  cemetery  there,  a 
number  of  our  dead  we  buried.  Eecently  the  ladies  of  Montgomery 
County  held  a  public  celebration  on  the  spot,  and  at  their  invitation, 
the  following  beautiful  poem,  composed  for,  and  commemorative  of 
the  occasion,  was  read  by  a  gentleman  of  that  county.  ) 

As  o'er  the  past,  the  widowed  mother  weeps, 

And  at  the  desolate  hearthstone  keeps 
Her  lonely  vigils  ;  when  December's 
Breath  lights  up  the  dying  embers, 
Who  is  it  then,  most  dearly  she  remembers, 

As  back  among  the  graves,  through  all  her  grief, 

The  spirit  wanders,  seeking  some  relief? 

Is  it  the  stout  and  buoyant  hearted  boy, 
"Who  grasped  Life's  flashing  blade  with  eager  joy, 
And  onward  pressed  with  right  good  will, 
And  on,  and  upward  sped,  until 
He  flung  his  banner  out  on  some  proud  hill  I 
Does  he  come  back  in  all  his  buried  splendor, 
To  fill  her  heart  with  thoughts  most  dearly  tender  ? 

Or  rather  he  —  the  feeble  one  —  who  burned 

To  mount  as  high,  and  for  the  struggle  yearned, 
But  faint  and  weak,  not  all  her  care 
Could  keep  that  eager  spirit  there, 
That  mounted  far  beyond  the  reach  of  prayer  1 

Does  he  not  rather  come  through  all  those  years, 

To  loose  the  sacred  fountain  of  her  tears  ? 


PATEIOT    HEEO   IN   THE    SIGHT   OF   GOD.  585 

'Tis  thus  Virginia,  at  her  spoiled  hearth 
Eemernbers  these,  with  all  her  buried  worth ; 
Forbidden  yet,  by  Power's  lust, 
To  recognize  their  sacred  dust, 
Devoted  daughters  have  assumed  the  trust, 
Until  the  grand  old  mother,  freed  of  bonds, 
Shall  come  to  write  her  love  in  stone  or  bronze. 

Then  here  to-day,  in  view  of  all  that  band 

Of  Southern  martyrs,  in  the  Spirit  land, 
Those  starry  clusters  we  may  see 
Now  circling  o'er  us,  born  to  be 
A  shining  system  round  the  sun-like  Lee ; 

We  come  to  bow  before  these  nameless  ones, 

Who  died  so  well,  tho'  far  from  hostile  guns. 

Ah  yes  !  'tis  these  who  would  have  died  for  Eight, 

As  grandly  as  the  foremost  in  the  fight, 
But  fainted  by  the  way.     'Tis  these 
Who  fought  that  other  king,  Disease, 
We  come  to  honor  on  our  bended  knees, 

With  pure,  and  loving  women  standing  near 

To  bless  each  lowly  one,  with  many  a  tear. 

And  while  they  weep  among  these  lonely  graves 

We  dare  proclaim  them  loyal  men — not  slaves, — 
Nor  power,  nor  force,  nor  human  laws 
Can  bind  our  people  with  a  clause 
That  "traitors  "  make  of  martyrs  in  our  cause. 

For  though  they  sleep  beneath  a  nameless  sod, 

They're  Patriot  heroes  in  the  sight  of  God  1 


586  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


tt  Wfrtwm  0!  Hwtt  WmmA 


THE   POET   LAUREATE   OF  SOUTH   CAROLINA. 


BY   SALLIE   A.    BKOCK. 

"  The  good  die  first, 

But  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket." 

His  harp  is  mute ! 
And  o'er  the  fair  and  sunlit  skies, 
Which  saw  his  splendid  genius  comet-like  arise 

And  wake  of  golden  poesy,  the  fruit — 
O'er  every  hill  and  dale, 
On  every  mount  and  vale, 
On  rock  and  stream  and  wood, 
On  mart  and  bay  and  flood, 

Is  cast  a  black  and  sombre  pall ! 

Unstrung,  and  by  the  wall 
It  stands ! 

The  master  hands 

Which  woke  to  life  its  chords  divine, 

Are  cold  and  still !     And  mine 

A  tribute  fain  would  pay  . 

To  the  unconscious  clay  ; 

The  spirit,  rather — • 

That  the  grim  decay  nor  envious  Death  can  gather, 
But  which  must  live  while  Time  shall  roll  along 
In  pulsing  echoes  of  undying  song  ! 


IN   THE   MEMORY   OF   HENRY  TIMROD.  587 

Yes,  Timrod,  while  an  amaranthine  wreath  I  twine, 

And  many  a  precious  blossom  cull  from  thine, 

That  thou  for  heads  of  others  in  a  chaplet  wove, 

"While  thy  great  heart  and  spirit  strove 

In  fleshly  bonds  of  brotherhood, 

And  in  the  dignity  of  manhood  stood — 

A  lighthouse  and  a  landmark  on  the  shores  of  Time. 

With  ringers  pointing  to  that  heavenly  clime, 

Where  sin  nor  death  is  known — 

Not  on  thine  own, 
My  garland  would  I  fling — 

Though  woven  of  immortelles — gemmed  with  tears,, 
The  diamond  dew  of  sorrow,  hopes  and  tears, 
The  precious  drops  that  anguish  bids  to  start. 
All  welling  from  the  fountains  of  the  heart — 

Not  on  thy  head  for  richest  crowns  so  meet, 

But  humbly  at  thy  feet 

My  offering  I  would  lay, 
And  mournful  sit  and  sing, 
And  wonder,  weep  and  pray ! 

Weep  !     Yea,  all  must  weep 
Who  knew  thy  virtues,  ere  the  dreamless  sleep 
Of  Death  enchained  thee  I     Weep,  as  for  a  star 
Fled  from  the  heavens  to  unknown  regions,  far  ! 
The  zephyr  sighs,  and  moans  the  morning  gale  ; 
On  every  Southern  breeze  is  heard  a  low,  sad  waiL 
The  tall  palmetto  bows  its  crested  head 
In  solemn  reverence  o'er  the  gifted  dead, 
And  all  the  leaves  that  in  the  forests  wave 
Will  hold  a  weeping  dew-drop  for  the  poet's  grave. 

Farewell  awhile ! 
No  more  thy  beaming  smile 


588         THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Shall  light  on  those  who  loved  thee  here, 
But  there,  up  there  in  the  Eternal  sphere, 

Thy  harp  will  wake  again 

To  joy's  glad,  thrilling  strain, 
To  chords  of  glory  which  shall  never  cease, 
In  hallelujahs  loud  unto  the  "Prince  of  Peace." 
The  "  CHEISTMAS  "  anthem  which  to  earth  was  given, 
Will  lingering  echo  through  the  courts  of  heaven  ! 
METBOPOLITAN  KECOED,  New  York,  Oct.  13,  1867. 


BY   HENKT   TIMKOD. 

at    the    Memorial    Celebration    in   Charleston,    South    Carolina, 
May,  1866. 

SLEEP  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves — 

Sleep,  martyrs  in  a  fallen  cause, 
Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 

The  pilgrim  here  to  pause. 

In  seeds  of  laurels  in  the  earth, 

The  blossom  of  your  fame  is  blown  ; 

And,  somewhere  waiting  for  its  birth 
The  shaft  is  in  the  stone. 

Meanwhile,  behold  the  tardy  years, 
Which  keep  in  trust  your  sordid  tomb 

Behold  your  sisters  bring  their  tears, 
And  these  memorial  blooms. 


CEDAEVILLE.  580 

Small  tributes  !  but  your  shades  will  smile 
More  proudly  on  those  wreaths  to-day, 

Than  when  some  cannon  moulded  pile 
Shall  overlook  this  bay. 

Stoop,  angels,  hither  from  the  skies  I 
There  is  no  holier  spot  of  ground, 

Than  where  defeated  valor  lies, 

By  mourning  beauty  crowned, 
NEW  YOKE  NEWS. 


BY  MRS.    JULIETTE   T.  BURTON,  VIRGINIA. 

How  sad  is  the  face  of  my  childhood's  home ! 
How  gloomy  the  shades  that  at  evening  come  ! 
How  solemn  the  echoes  that  waken  its  halls, 
How  mournfully  murmur  the  winds  round  its  walls  I 
The  harsh  hand  of  Time  has  not  altered  it  so. 

Alas  !  'tis  the  track  of  an  army  is  there, 
The  grim  train  of  war  to  its  bowers  brought  woe, 

And  darkened  and  scarred  all  its  features  so  fair. 

Thoughts  crowd  on  my  brain  and  encumber  my  heart 
Of  this   early  loved   spot.     The  fresh  breezes  that 
swept 

O'er  its  bright  hills  and  tossed  the  green  branches  apart 
Of  its  locusts  and  pines,  seemed  to  me  to  be  played 

By  glad  spirits  in  the  air,  who  for  my  delight  kept 
Weird  music  afloat  where  their  fairy  wings  strayed 


590  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Its  meadows  and  hillocks,  the  lanes  and  the  path 

To   the  "  Barn,"  and  the  "  Run "  (which    so   often  in 

wrath 

Broke  its  bounds,)  were  far  dearer  than  rubies  or  gold, 
Or  all  that  the  genius  of  wealth  could  unfold. 

There  dwelt  the  dear  heart  from   which  virtue's  rich 

spring, 

Drew  kindness  and  love  for  each  being  and  thing ; 
There  beamed  the  glad  smile  and  there  glistened  the 

eye, 

That  told  to  my  heart  that  a  heaven  was  nigh. 
Ah  !  gen'rous  to  strangers  and  kind  to  the  poor, 
Were  the  dear  ones  that  gathered  within  that  old  door. 

But  no  voice  is  there  now,  that  then  gladened  its  halls, 
Nor  will  ever  be  heard  in  its  gloom  stricken  glades ; 

The  moon's  rays  fall  cold  on  its  ruin- wrapped  walls, 
And  the  winds  shriek  sad  requiems  through  its  lone 
shades ; 

And  the  sunlight  that  once  made  its  bowers  so  bright 

Seems  faded  to  beams  that  paint  sorrow  and  blight. 

E'en  the  chirp  of  the  brown  wren  that  builds  on  the 

eaves, 

Seems  so  laden  with  grief  and  lament  for  the  past, 
That  the   ear  turns   for  change  to  the  rustle   of  the 

leaves, 

Or  the  woe-breathing  wail  of  the  murmuring  blast 
That  sobs  through  the  willow ;  whose  age  stricken  head 
Bows  over  the  spot,  where  lie  buried  my  dead. 

METROPOUTAN  RECORD. 


LINES.  591 


Respectfully  inscribed  to  the  Ladies'  Memorial  Association  of  Frederick- 
burg,  Virginia. 

BY  MOINA.    (EEV.    ABEAM  J.    EYAN.) 

Author  of  the  "  Conquered  Banner." 

GATHER  the  sacred  dust, 

Of  the  warriors  tried  and  true, 
Who  bore  the  flag  of  our  nation's  trust, 
And  fell  in  a  cause  as  great  as  just, 

And  died  for  me  and  you. 

Wherever  the  brave  have  died, 

They  should  not  rest  apart ; 
Living,  they  struggled  side  by  side — 
Why  should  the  hand  of  death  divide 

A  single  heart  from  heart. 

Gather  them  each  and  all 

From  the  Private  to  the  Chief, 
Came  they  from  cabin  or  lordly  hall, 
Over  their  dust  let  the  fresh  tears  fall 

Of  a  nation's  holy  grief. 

No  matter  whence  they  came, 

Dear  is  their  lifeless  clay, 
Whether  unknown  or  known  to  fame, 
Their  cause  and  country  were  the  same, 

They  died — and  they  wore  the  GREY, 


592  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Grather  the  corpses  strewn 

O'er  many  a  battle  plain — 
From  many  a  grave  that  lies  so  lone, 
"Without  a  name,  without  a  stone, 

Gather  the  Southern  slain. 

And  the  dead  shall  meet  the  dead, 

While  the  living  o'er  them  weep  ; 
For  the  men  whom  Lee  and  Stonewall  led, 
And  the  hearts  that  once  together  bled, 

Should  now  together  sleep. 
NEW  YOEK  FBEEMAN'S  JOUKNAL,  Dec.  3d,  1866. 


OF     THE     LAMENTED    GOV.     HENRY    WATKINS    ALLEN, 
/nscn'&ed  to  the  Noble  Women  of  Louisiana. 

BY  COL.    A.    M.    HOBBY. 

As  sinks  the  sun  along  the  Arctic  skies, 

And  his  last  ray  in  purple  twilight  dies, 

A  silence  deepens  o'er  the  lonely  soul 

Of  those  dark  dwellers  round  the  icy  pole  ; 

Eyes  brim  with  tears,  the  heart  with  sorrow  thrills, 

As  night  descends  upon  their  frozen  hills, 

So  wept  and  felt  we  when  the  saddened  breeze 

Sighed  from  the  Exile's  home  beyond  the  seas, 

And  murmuring  whispered  to  his  native  shore 

That  her  bright  sun  had  set  to  rise  no  more. 


HENRY  WATERS  ALLEN.  593 

"Why  weeps  that  maiden,  why  in  gloom  she  roves  ? 
Nor  heeds  the  fragrance  of  her  orange  groves  ? 
"Why  rests  a  sadness  on  that  iron  brow  ? 
A  tear  that  eye  has  never  known  till  now  ? 
"Why  stops  the  child  at  play,  three  Aprils  old, 
And  earth  and  air  a  solemn  stillness  hold  ? 
And  why  does  grief  extend  its  darkened  pall 
And  universal  sorrow  sadden  all  ? 
What !  Weep  not  for  him  !  whose  deeds  sublime 
Are  rolled  with  grand  music  on  the  breeze  of  time — 
A  sun  in  Glory's  firmament  hath  set, 
But  in  its  dying  rays  we  linger  yet 
(That  splendid  sun  that  lit  the  Southern  sky, 
Warmed  every  heart  and  kindled  every  eye  ? 
No  spot  appeared  upon  its  golden  zone, 
No  borrowed  light — its  radiance  all  its  own : 
Spread  to  the  distant  worlds  its  piercing  beam, 
Or  touched  the  modest  violet  on  the  stream  ; 
Kissed  every  tear-drop  from  the  tender  flower, 
That  bent  its  leaves  beneath  the  storm's  rude  power ; 
Unclasped  the  ice-bands  from  the  snowy  hills, 
Called  the  hushed  music  from  their  voiceless  rills, 
Awak'd  the  spring-buds  from  their  sleep  of  death, 
To  breathe  the  fragrance  of  their  spicy  breath  ; 
To  paint  the  cheerless  fields  and  faded  bowers, 
In  all  the  loveliness  of  summer  hours.) 
Who  would  not  feel  when  such  a  sun  had  set, 
The  deepest  sorrows  of  a  long  regret. 

Oh,  ALLEN  !  If  within  your  lonely  grave — 
Where  summer's  tropic  blooms  forever  wave — 
The  sounds  of  southern  woe,  that  now  we  hear, 
Could  pierce  its  portals  to  thy  spirit  ear, 


594  THE    SOUTHEKN  AMARANTH. 

In  one  broad,  deep  Confederate  voice  'twould  rise, 

And  half  repay  thee  for  thy  sacrifice. 

If  solemn  grief  be  ours,  how  doubly  great 

Thy  grief  shall  be,  our  mourning  sister  State  ; 

He  was  thy  son,  whose  purity  and  fame 

Grave  splendid  lustre  to  your  own  bright  name, 

But  glorious  deeds  like  his,  not  thine  alone, 

Fame  proudly  spreads  them  with  her  trumpet  tone, 

Till  every  pulse  was  fired,  and  heart  was  stirred, 

When  ALLEN'S  great  and  glorious  name  was  heard. 

Oh !  for  some  mighty  hand  that  would  aspire 

To  sweep  the  golden  chords  of  Southern  Lyre  ; 

To  breathe  her  own  great  names  in  martial  song, 

And  point  the  brave  and  true  in  Fame's  proud  throng. 

Oh,  who  shall  estimate  the  greatness  lost, 

Or  tell  the  virtues  that  adorned  him  most : 

The  civic  chieftain  of  a  ruined  State — 

Once  proudly  prosperous,  and  truly  great — 

Now  echoed  but  to  hostile  armies'  tread, 

A  boundless  waste  where  desolation  spread 

One  cheerless  shadow  o'er  the  land,  and  there 

Starvation's  cries  were  mingled  with  despair. 

The  trembling  ship,  that  fiercely  storms  assail 

And,  helpless,  staggers  to  the  rushing  gale, 

Tarns  boldly  to  the  waves,  that  would  o'erwhelm, 

When  the  undaunted  pilot  takes  the  helm. 

So,  with  tremendous  might  this  master  hand 

Stayed  dread  destruction's  march  upon  the  land, 

Touched  the  State  corpse  of  credit,  and  it  rose 

In  sinewed  strength,  a  giant  on  his  foes 

The  barren  fields  again  were  decked  in  bloom, 

The  anvil  echoed  to  the  whirring  loom ; 


HENRY  WATKINS  ALLEN.  595 

His  sails  of  commerce  whitened  in  the  breeze 
Despite  the  watchful  sentries  of  the  seas. — 
Beturned  through  dangers  with  their  smiling  store, 
To  clothe  the  naked  and  to  feed  the  poor ; 
And  grateful  tears  in  sorrowing  eyes  were  born, 
As  golden  plenty  filled  her  crescent  horn. 
When  hearts  grew  faint  in  danger's  darkest  hour, 
A  new  demand  was  made  on  ALLEN'S  power. 
His  wondrous  eloquence  was  deeply  breathed, 
And  Hope,  with  confidence  her  brow  en  wreathed ; 
He  swept  with  mighty  hand  on  passion's  lyre, 
His  words  were  edged  with  patriotic  fire ; 
Though  sunk  in  cowardice,  or  ribbed  in  steel, 
No  heart  but  answered  to  his  great  appeal  ; 
His  willing  ear  heard  tales  of  deep  distress, 
His  ready  hand  gave  to  the  wronged  redress. 
True  to  the  last — did  all  that  man  could  dare, 
To  shield  the  helpless  was  his  latest  care ! 
True  to  the  last — from  heaven's  meridian  height 
•Saw  Glory's  Southern  Sun  sink  down  in  night ! 
True  to  the  last — as  sorrow's  tear-drop  fell, 
To  broken  hearts  he  bade  a  last  farewell ! 
True  to  the  last — he  saw  the  last  act  close, 
And  sought  in  foreign  lands  a  long  repose. 

In  foreign  land  that  lonely  exile  sleeps — 

No  eye  of  love  its  faithful  vigil  keeps. 

By  strangers'  hands  alone  his  eyes  were  closed, 

By  strangers'  hands  his  mangled  limbs  composed, 

By  strangers  hands  his  shroud  of  martial  gray — * 

*  The  remains  of  Gov.  Allen,  at  his  own  request,  were  buried  in 
4he  full  suit  of  a  Confederate  Brigadier  General. 


596  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

That  shone  resplendent  in  the  Southern  fray — 
Was  wrapped,  oh  !  warmly  o'er  his  noble  breast ; — 
Within  its  folds  more  calmly  will  he  rest — 
Meet  type,  to  clothe  in  gray,  his  manly  form, 
Alike  undaunted  they  had  met  the  storm. 
Alike  their  stainless  purity  had  kept, 
Alike  will  be  remembered,  loved  and  wept, 
Alike  in  tears  and  silence  laid  away, 
Alike  immortal  in  their  mouldering  clay. 

But  noble  Louisiana,  on  thy  breast 

Thy  hero's  ashes  shall  at  last  find  rest ; 

Thy  hands  in  love  are  reached  beyond  the  wave, 

That  thy  proud  city  shall  contain  his  grave. 

Oh  !  let  thy  noble  daughter's  tender  care     . 

A  fitting  burial  for  their  chief  prepare, 

And  bear  him  lovingly  with  pensive  tread 

To  the  dim  city  of  the  silent  dead, 

Where  vines  shall  clasp  and  fragrant  flowers  bloom,, 

In  sweet  profusion  o'er  great  ALLEN'S  tomb ; 

While  raised  on  high,  the  marble  pyramid 

Shall  tell,  beneath  the  hero's  dust  is  hid, 

And  on  its  polished  surface  richly  spread 

These  god-like  virtues  of  the  noble  dead : 

Oh !  Death,  within  thy  walls  of  rest, 
Keceive  this  great  and  noble  guest ! 
By  broken  hearts  was  ne'er  conveyed, 
To  hands  of  thine,  a  nobler  shade, 
Affection's  hands  have  reared  this  trust, — • 
To  guard  a  hero's  sacred  dust — 
Memorial  of  as  pure  a  man 


LITTLE   G1FFEN.  597 


As  blessed  the  earth  since  time  began. 
His  laurels  bright,  the  honors  claim 
Of  Christian,  statesman,  warrior's  name 
In  halls  of  wisdom  wisely  great, 
A  master  in  the  grave  debate ; 
In  battle  field  the  first  to  lead— 
A  tower  of  strength  in  day  of  need. 
On  him  did  justice  never  frown, 
His  brow  wore  duty's  iron  crown, 
And  Honor  gave  him,  from  his  birth, 
A  mountain  majesty  of  worth  ; 
While  mercy  smiles,  recounting  o'er 
His  boundless  blessings  to  the  poor. 
Sleep,  Hero,  sleep !  rest,  Patriot,  rest  1 
Among  the  hearts  that  loved  thee  best. 
Xong  as  the  sun  on  high  shall  burn 
We'll  bend  with  reverence  o'er  thy  urr 
And  tears  of  love,  till  Time's  last  day, 
Shall  consecrate  thy  hallowed  clay  I 

GALVESTON,  TEXAS,  June  5th,  1866. 


BY   F.    O.     TICKNOR,    M.    D. 

OUT  of  the  focal  and  foremost  fire, 
Out  of  the  hospital  walls  as  dire  ; 
.Smitten  of  grape — shot  and  gangrene, 
(Eighteenth  battle,  and  he  sixteen  :) 
Spectre,  such  as  you  seldom  see — 
Jjittle  Gilfen  of  Tennessee ! 


598          THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

"  Take  him — and  welcome !"  the  surgeons  said 
"  Much  your  Doctor  can  help  the  dead  1" 
And  so  we  took  him  and  brought  him  where 
The  balm  was  sweet  on  the  summer  air ; 
And  we  laid  him  down  on  a  wholesome  bed 
Utter  Lazarus,  heel  to  head  ! 

Weary  War  with  the  bated  breath, 
Skeleton  boy  against  skeleton  Death. 
Months  of  torture,  how  many  such ! 
Weary  weeks  of  the  stick  and  crutch  1 
Still  a  glint  in  the  steel  blue  eye 
Spoke  of  the  spirit  that  wouldn't  die, 

And  didn't !  nay,  more  !  in  death's  despite 
The  crippled  skeleton  learned  to  write  I 
"  Dear  mother"  at  first,  of  course  ;  and  then, 
"  Dear  Captain" — inquiring  about  the  "  men.Jr 
Captain's  answer — "  Of  eighty  and  five, 
Giifen  and  I  are  left  alive  I" 

"  Johnston's  pressed  at  the  front,  they  say  1" 

Little  Giffen  was  up  and  away. 

A  tear,  his  first,  as  he  bade  good  bye, 

Dimmed  the  glint  of  his  steel-blue  eye ; 

"  III  write,  if  spared;"  there  was  news  of  a  fight,. 

But  none  of  Giifen !  he  did  not  write  I 

I  sometimes  fancy  that  when  I'm  king, 
And  my  gallant  courtiers  form  a  ring, 
All  so  thoughtless  of  power  and  pel£ 
And  each  so  loyal  to  all  but  self, 
I'd  give  the  best  on  his  bended  knee, 
Yea,  barter  the  whole  for  the  Loyalty 
Of  little  Giffen  of  Tennessee  ! 

THE  LAND  WE  LOVE. 


LINES.  599 


TO   GENERAL  S.    B.    BUCKLER. 

BY   EOSAEITA. 

WE  meet  to-night 

In  a  gorgeous  light, 
But  our  hearts  are  full  of  sorrow 

We  gather  now 

With  a  cloudless  brow 
And  will  smile  again  to-morrow. 

Bat  the  barbed  dart 

Is  in  our  heart, 
And  there  it  rankles  ever  ; 

When  we  think  of  our  brave 

In  a  distant  grave 
And  know  they  are  gone  forever  1 

For  us  they  fell ; 

Let  history  tell 
In  its  page  of  crimson  story, 

How  they  faced  the  tide 

And  bravely  died 
On  fields  so  dread  and  gory. 

They  may  crush  us  low, 
'Neath  the  iron  bow 


*  The  following  poems  were  transmitted  through  the  Bazaar  Post 
Office,  New  Orleans,  February  23rd,  1867. 


600  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

That  may  ruin  our  Southern  land, 
But  the  right  to  mourn 
Is  from  God  alone, 

And  we  mourn  our  broken  land. 


S.    B.    BTJCKNEB. 

'Neath  the  gorgeous  light, 

That  beams  brightly  to-night, 
We  dare  not  even  dream  of  our  sorrow  ; 

And  the  chivalrous  dead, 

From  their  chill,  gory  bed, 
May  not  claim  our  thoughts  on  the  morrow. 

And  no  tears  may  now  fall 

On  the  funeral  pall 
Over  which  our  vigils  we're  keeping ; 

No  flowers  ever  bloom 

O'er  the  cold,  silent  tomb, 
Where  our  dead  are  so  peacefully  sleeping. 

And  the  funeral  bell, 

May  never  more  tell 
The  sad  throes  of  the  heart  that  is  breaking  ; 

Nor  the  mother  may  mourn 

Her  brave  boy  lately  borne 
In  silence,  to  wait  the  last  waking. 


SOMEBODY'S  DARLING.  601 

And  the  maiden  must  still 

The  emotions  that  thrill 
Through  her  soul,  in  agony  weeping ; 

Though  her  heart  may  be  crushed, 

Yet  her  sobs  must  be  hushed, 
O'er  the  grave  where  her  lover  is  sleeping. 

And  no  tablets  may  tell 

Where  the  young  hero  fell, 
Nor  recount  the  bright  deeds  of  his  story ; 

But  neglected  he  sleeps, 

While  in  silence  she  weeps, 
As  she  treasures  his  love  and  his  glory. 

For  the  word  of  command, 
Has  late  gone  through  the  land, 
That  'tis  treason  to  mourn  the  departed ; 
And  thus,  God  on  his  throne 
To  vain  man  must  alone 
his  errors  when  love  He  imparted 


MISS  MAHTA    LA.  COSTE,    GEORGIA. 

INTO  a  ward  of  the  white- washed  halls 

Where  the  dead  and  the  dying  lay, — 
Wounded  by  bayonets,  shells  and  balls, 

Somebody's  darling  was  borne  one  day — 
Somebody's  darling  so  young  and  so  brave  ! 

Wearing  yet  on  his  sweet  pale  face — 
Soon  to  be  hid  in  the  dust  of  the  grave — 

The  lingering  light,  of  his  boyhood's  grace  I 


602  THE   SOUTHEEN   AMAEA.NTH. 

Matted  and  damp  are  the  curls  of  gold 

Kissing  the  snow  of  that  fair  young  brow> 
Pale  are  the  lips  of  delicate  mould — 

Somebody's  darling  is  dying  now. 
Back  from  his  beautiful,  blue  veined  brow, 

Brush  the  wandering  waves  of  gold ; 
Cross  his  hands  on  his  bosom  now — 

Somebody's  darling  is  still  and  cold. 

,  Kiss  him  once  for  somebody's  sake, 
Murmur  a  prayer  soft  and  low — 

One  bright  curl  from  its  fair  mates  take — 
They  were  somebody's  pride,  you  know. 

Somebody's  hand  hath  hath  rested  there ; 
Was  it  a  mother's  soft  and  white  ? 

Or  have  the  lips  of  a  sister  fail- 
Been  baptized  in  their  waves  of  light  ? 


God  knows  best !     He  has  somebody's  love 

Somebody's  heart  enshrined  him  there — 
Somebody  wafted  his  name  above, 

Night  and  morn  on  the  wings  of  prayer* 
Somebody  wept  when  he  marched  away, 

Looking  so  handsome,  brave  and  grand  t 
Somebody's  kiss  on  his  forehead  lay — 

Somebody  clung  to  his  parting  hand. 

Somebody's  watching  and  waiting  for  him,. 

Yearning  to  hold  him  again  to  her  heart ; 
And  there  he  lies,  with  his  blue  eyes  dim, 

And  his  smiling,  childlike  lips  apart 


DEATH   OR  VICTORY.  60S 

Tenderly  bury  the  fair  young  dead — 
Pausing  to  drop  o'er  his  grave  a  tear ; 

Carve  on  the  wooden  slab  o'er  his  head 
"  Somebody's  darling  slumbers  here." 


BY  L.    VIKGINIA   FKENCH 


WHEN  shall  they  all  be  written  down, — 

Those  thousand  histories  that  swell 

From  highland  summit, — and  mountain  crown, 

And  every  wild  and  wooded  dell  ? 

"What  artist  hand  shall  bid  them  bloom? 

Or  sound  to  foreign  climes  afar, 

The  might — the  misery — the  gloom, 

And  glory  of  the  present  war  ! 

Shall  poet  souls  with  heart  of  grace 
Go  forth, — as  sentinels  are  set 
And  through  the  midnight  watches,  pace 
Each  bold  and  bannered  parapet  ? 
To  gather  up  with  loving  hands 
The  record  of  a  Nation's  wrongs — 
And  send  them  forth  to  distant  lands 
In  Valor's  stern  and  stately  songs  ? 

*  Special  Contribution. 

These  lines  were  written  at  the  request  of  a  valued  friend  in 
memory  of  a  noble  youth,  Lieut.  Ehea,  who  fell  at  the  battle  of 
Belmont.  He  bore  his  great  grandfather's  sword,  inscribed  with  the 
words— "Death  or  Victory,"  (a  sword  which  had  flashed  on  the- 
battle  fields  of  the  Old  Revolution)  and  met  his  fate  bravely  while 
refusing  to  surrender  it. 


604  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Not  so — those  histories  come  to  us,— 
As  War  pours  forth,  its  clarion  strain 
We  listen, — sacred  with  sorrow,  thus 
We  bow  amid  our  bitter  pain. 
From  every  field  that  red  with  gore 
Euns  crimson  to  the  setting  sun, 
A  wail  steals  up  that  evermore 
Drowns  the  deep  shout  of  victory  won, 

As  in  old  ^Revolution's  day, 

When  Fame  cast  laurels  on  the  brow 

Of  rebel  chieftain — so  the  bay 

Is  borne  by  "  rebel"  chieftains  now. 

Yet  ah  !  from  every  field  there  steals 

A  cry  that  pierces  heart  and  brain — 

The  iron  entering  bosoms  there 

Strikes  home  to  us  ;  all,  all  in  vain 

Goes  up  the  shout  of  men, — we  kneel 

Where  women  should — to  wail  the  slain. 

Manassas  heard  that  fearful  strain — 
And  evermore  its  anguished  sound 
Wells  up  in  weird  and  'wildered  plain 
From  many  a  "  dark  and  bloody  ground" 
Bethel  and  Springfield  heard  it  sigh, 
And  Leesburg  echoed  deep  and  dread, 
From  Belmont  now  it  swells  on  high — 
"  Bring  forth  the  dead— the  gallant  dead  I" 
***** 

Old  Mississippi's  waters  gleamed 

As  in  the  golden  days  of  yore  ; 

And  Autumn's  crimson  banners  beamed 


DEATH   OR   VICTOEY. 

Like  sunset  glories  on  the  shore. 
On  hillside  green,  on  billowy  bay, 
On  distant  dome  and  shining  spire 
The  day's  meridian  splendors  lay 
In  waves  of  living  fire. 

How  peaceful  all !     Nay,  look  I  that  glow 

As  other  banners  floating  wide, 

And  armaments  of  gallant  men 

Are  moving  down  the  water's  side. 

They  cross  the  stream,— then  brays  the  trump* 

Then  rolling  drums  and  thrilling  fife. 

Till  red-browed  Battle  b  golden  pomp 

Is  blackening  in  the  desperate  strife. 

The  foemen  meet.     Broad  banners  fall 
Or  float  amid  the  smoke  and  gloom, 
Which  hangs  a  shrouding  fune  al  pall 
Where  manhood  sternly  marks  his  tomb ; 
Where,  with  his  energies  immortal  ,,,-/ 

And  standing  face  to  face  with  Fate, 
He  opens  Glory's  golden  portal 
And  makes  the  road  to  Honor  straight ! 

Behold  him  there  1     The  gallant  KHEA, 

As  on  the  battle's  bloody  marge, 

His  relic-sword  amid  the  fray, 

Is  cheering  on  the  desperate  charge  ! 

"  For  death  or  victory  '."—flashed  the  swordsr 

And  furious  was  the  charge  they  made, 

For  dauntless  souls  glowed  with  the  words 

Engraven  on  his  battle  blade  ! 


606  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

Down  close  the  clouds.     Anon  they  rise — 
They're  swept  aside — what  do  we  see  ? 
The  youthful  leader  stricken  lies. 
Yet,  fighting,  rises  to  his  knee. 
"  Surrender  !"  through  the  iron  shower 
Hush  thundering  011  the  swarming  hordes — 
"  Surrender!  you  are  in  our  power  I" 
Vain — vain  the  menace ;  list  his  words, 
As  turning  with  his  proud  lip  curled, 
And  eye  ablaze  with  haughty  scorn 
"'No — never  will  I  yield  the  sword 
Once  by  my  father's  father  borne !" 

Fallen — fallen !     Stricken  to  his  knee, 

His  right  arm  raised,  his  forehead  bare, — 

Yet  'twas  a  gallant  sight  to  see 

That  quiet  grandeur  in  his  air 

'Mid  the  gaunt  battle's  thundering. blaze! 

It  was  a  pained  and  pallid  face, 

Yet  grandly  glorious  to  behold ; 

Full  of  that  calm,  majestic  grace 

The  Grecian  heroes  wore  of  old. 

They've  struck  him  down  !  A  score  of  foes 
Press  onward  for  his  latest  breath — 
God's  rest,  oh !  gallant  Rhea,  for  those 
Who  find  both  "  Victory  and  Death  P 
The  Southland  turns  her  streaming  eyes 
To  where  thy  blood  baptized  her  sod, 
For  her  thy  glorious  sacrifice — 
For  her  thy  spirit  pressed  to  God. 


A   "  REBEL "   THAT   DIED.  607 

And  tliou  art  gone !     The  brave,  the  proud, 

With  eye  of  fire  and  arm  of  might, 

Beneath  the  sable  battle  cloud 

Thy  spirit  passed.     "  God  speed  the  Eight," 

The  echo  of  thy  latest  breath, 

Heaven's  rest  be  thine — in  Horror's  sight, 

"Who  won  both  "  Victory  and  Death  !" 

To  hero  souls  of  every  clime, 
Thy  stainless  record  still  remains, 
Engraven  on  the  shaft  which  Time 
One  day  shall  rear  on  History's  plains. 
This  Southern  land  that  day  for  thee 
Shall  build  of  loving  hearts  a  shrine, 
Her  children's  children  say  with  me — 
"  Oh  !  gallant  heart !—  God's  will  be  thine  I" 


tfaf 

BY  AMANDA  I*    PATTON. 

I'M  thinking  over  our  saddened  past, — 

The  War — with  its  triumph-swell — 
Oreat  lives  gone  down  in  the  martyr- van — 

And  a  nation's  funeral  knell. 
But  I  chose  me  a  sad  and  simple  theme, 

No  title  of  vaunting  pride  '  .!; 

Ennobles  my  lay  ;  as  with  tears  I  tell 

Of  a  "  Rebel "  friend  that  died. 

In  a  skirmish  at  M ,  where  MORGAN  had  led 

A  band  of  Kentuckians  true, 


608  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

In  the  front  he  had  fallen — his  boyish  hand 

Grasping  the  banner  of  blue  : 
A  wound  in  his  breast,  and  a  shattered  arm 

Both  draining  the  crimson  tide, 
Brought  never  a  frown  to  that  pallid  face, 

Nor  a  groan  from  the  lip  of  pride. 

Though  he  did  not  die  till  the  Summer  leaves 

Burned  into  the  Autumn  red  ; 
(In  the  month  when  his  mother  waited  for  him 

In  his  Florida  home,  he  said  ;) 
Still  never  a  murmur,  nor  moan  nor  sigh 

Heard  we  who  watched  by  his  side, 
The  Angel  of  Patience  had  blended  her  soul 

With  the  soul  of  my  friend — who  died. 

In  the  glare  of  a  hospital's  dreary  ward, 

Surrounded  by  shriek  and  groan, 
Through  the  weary  days  and  the  pain-racked  nights 

He  lay,  with  never  a  moan ; 
His  hand  in  mine  through  one  terrible  hour, 

When  they  severed  the  arm  from  his  side, 
Lay  passive  and  cold — but  he  smiled  e'en  then — 

Brave  heart  of  the  "  Eebel  "  that  died ! 

There  are  souls  I  think,  in  this  world  of  ours, 

Stray  beams  from  a  realm  of  Light, 
Whose  hours  of  courage,  and  faith,  and  love, 

Outshine  all  the  years  of  Might ; — 
I  thought  so  then,  as  his  prayers  arose 

For  the  loving  ones  severed  wide, 
And  the  Flag  of  the  Cross — but  I  cannot  tell  now 

That  prayer  of  the  "  Rebel "  who  died. 


A    "  REBEL  "   THAT  DIED.  609 

All !  once  I  remember  when  fever  wild 

Burned  down  into  heart  and  brain, 
How  he  raved  of  home — how  he  laughed  in  glee 

To  meet  with  his  loved  again  ! 
Then  he  whispered  low  of  a  fair-haired  girl — 

She  had  promised  to  be  his  bride  ; 
And  his  smile  was  sweet  as  he  murmured  the  name 

Of  the  love  of  a  "  Rebel  "—who  died. 

Then  loudly  he  laughed  in  his  fever  wild 

And  a  "  Prisoner's  Guard  "  from  sleep, 
Sprang  up  with  a  curse,  and  bade  him  "  Be  still  I" 

As  I  turned  aside  to  weep — 
(May  God  forgive  him — He  only  can  !) 

"While  fancy  still  wandered  wide, 
He  struck  the  boy  with  a  savage  blow, — 

Poor  "  Rebel,"  that  suffered, — and  died ! 

But  it  matters  not  now.     On  a  quiet  eve 

He  asked  me  to  "  kiss  him  good-bye," 
And  the  spirit  fled  from  the  pallid  clay 

To  its  happier  home  on  high. 
Do  you  curl  your  lip  in  a  quick  disdain, 

And  scornfully  turn  aside  ? 
Know  this — no  glory  of  earth  I  prize 

Like  the  kiss  of  that  friend — who  died. 

"  One  story  of  thousands," — you  well  may  say ; 

Aye  I  and  type  of  the  thousands  more 
Who,  faint  and  weary  in  prisoner's  cell, 

Scorn,  famine,  and  insult  bora 
Though  "  Conquered !"  be  shouted  above  their  tombs, 


610  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

(I  ask  it  with  mournful  pride — ) 
On  Fame's  bright  page  are  there  greater  names 
Than  those  of  the  "Rebels  "  who  died? 

'  HOME. 


BY  J.    E.    BABBICK. 


MY  heart  is  sad  —  I  weep  for  one,  the  bravest  of  the 

brave, 
Whose  battle  fought  whose  victory  won,  now  fills  a 

hero's  grave; 
Nor  I  alone,  but  thousands  more,  whose  hearts  with 

grief  will  swell, 
As  they,  the  early  loss  deplore,  of  one  they  loved  so 

well  ; 
Kentucky  will   with  sorrow  weep,  for  him  her  noble 

son, 
Who  died,  her  olden  faith  to  keep,  that  freedom  might 

be  won  : 
Fond  hearts  will  mourn  his  fate  to  hear  —  and  silent 

tears  be  shed 
When  told  the  name  of  one  so  dear,  is  added  to  the 

dead 


*  Captain  D.  E.  McKendree,  who  fell  in  the  charge  of  Bate's 
Division,  was  among  the  first  of  Kentucky's  sons  to  unsheathe  the 
sword  in  defence  of  his  native  South.  To  his  energy  and  zeal,  more 
perhaps  than  to  any  other  person  living  or  dead,  is  the  gallant 
Lewis  indebted  for  his  success  in  raising  the  6th  Kentucky  regiment. 
The  fame  of  McKendree  will  live  in  the  memory  of  the  Kentucky 
Brigade  as  long  as  one  of  that  noble  band  remains,  to  cherish  their 
heroic  deeds. 


MC  KENDREE.  611 

At  Shiloli,  through  the  battle-storm,  his  gallant  band 
he  led, 

While  shot  and  shell  assailed  his  form,  and  whizzed 
above  his  head ; 

"There,  by  the  deadly  missile  aimed,  they  bore  him  from 
the  field, 

As  shouts  of  victory  proclaimed,  the  foeman  forced  to 
yield. 

Then  once  again  in  Tennessee,  the  pride  of  his  com 
mand, 

He  fought  as  fight  the  brave,  and  fell,  to  gain  his  na 
tive  land ; 

There,  as  around  him  thickly  flew  the  storm  of  shot 
and  shell, 

Pierced  by  a  missile,  through  and  through,  he  faint  and 
bleeding  fell. 


Brave  soldier  1  I  would  fain  thy  name,  a  nobler  tribute 

pay, 

And  circle  round  thine  earthly  fame,  the  laurel  and  the 

bay; 
Thy  lot  to  fill  a  stranger  grave — thy  home  afar  from 

thee, 

No  truer  heart  than  thine  e'er  gave  its  hopes  to  liberty. 
"What  balm  the  broken  heart  may  heal — how  dry  the 

weeping  eye, 
Of  loved  ones  that  thy  loss  will  feel,  beneath  thy  native 

sky; 
C/an  tears  of  Mother's  Sister's  love,  one  pang  of  pain 

allay, 
A  solace  to  one  dearer  prove— her  sorrow  chase  away  ? 


612  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

Friend  of  my  manhood  and  my  youth,  the  heart  that 

knew  thee  best, 
Alone  might  to  thy  virtue,  truth — thy  modest  worth 

attest ; 
A  soul  that  justice,  truth,  gave  birth — to   right   and 

honor  wed, 
Thy  step  seemed  in  the  path  of  earth,  by  unseen  angels 

led: 
Here  'neath  the  light  of  Georgian  skies,  thy  grave  will 

cherished  be, 
And   stranger  hearts  with  tearful  eyes   enshrine  thy 

memory  ; 
And  as  the  passing  age  recedes,  the  classic  pen  shall 

tell 
The  story   of  heroic  deeds,  where  brave  McKENDREE 

fell! 


rf  tfo 


Written  at  the  tomb  of  the  Eentuckians  who  fell  at  Buena  Vista,  buried  in 
the  Cemetery  at  Frankfort. 

BY  COL.    THEODOKE  o'HAEA.* 

THE  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo  I 
No  more  on  life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few  ; 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 

*  This  poem,  apart  from  its  intrinsic  beauty,  derives  additional 
and  melancholy  interest  from  the  recent  death  of  its  author.  He 
served  on  the  staff  of  Gens.  Breckinridge  and  Bragg,  in  which  his 
conduct  was  marked  by  the  highest  order  of  gallantry. 


THE  BIVOUAC   OF  THE  DEAD.  613 

And  Glory  guards  with  solemn  round, 
The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

.No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind, 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts, 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind. 
N"o  vision  of  to-morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dread  alarms, 
JNb  braying  horn  or  screaming  fife 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 

"Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust, 

Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed, 
'Their  haughty  banner  trailed  in  dust, 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud  — 
And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 

The  red  stains  from  each  brow  ; 
And  the  proud  forms  by  battle  gashed, 

Are  free  from  anguish  now. 

The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade, 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 
The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout  are  past 
Nor  war's  wild  note,  nor  glory's  peal, 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 
Those  breasts  that  never  more  may  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight 


the  fierce  Northern  hurricane 
That  sweeps  the  great  plateau, 
.Flushed  with  the  triumph  yet  to  gain, 
Came  down  the  serried  foe. 


614  THE  SOUTHERN  AHABA^TH. 

Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath, 
Knew  well  the  watchword  of  the  day 

Was  Victory  or  Death ! 

Long  did  the  doubtful  conflict  raga 

O'er  all  that  stricken  plain, 
For  never  fiercer  fight  did  wager 

The  vengeful  blood  of  Spain  ; 
And  still  the  storm  of  battle  blew, 

Still  swelled  the  gory  tide — 
Not  long  our  stout  old  chieftain  knew,. 

Such  odds  his  strength  could  bide. 

'Twas  at  this  hour  his  stern  command,. 

Called  to  a  martyr's  grave 
The  flower  of  this  his  own  loved  land, 

The  nation's  flag  to  save. 
By  rivers  of  their  father's  gore 

His  first-born  laurels  grew, 
And  well  he  deemed  the  sons  would  pour 

Their  lives  for  glory  too. 

Full  many  another's  breath  has  swept. 

O'er  Angostura's  plain, 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 

Above  its  mouldering  slain. 
The  raven's  scream  or  eagle's  flight^ 

Or  shepherd's  pensive  lay, 
Alone  now  wake  each  solemn  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  dread  day. 

Sons  of  the  "  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground/" 
Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 


THE  BIVOUAC  CF  THE  DEAD.          615 

Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resound 

Along  the  heedless  air  ; 
Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

Should  be  your  fitter  grave ; 
She  claims  from  war  its  richest  spoil — 

The  ashes  of  the  brave. 

Thus  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 

Far  from  the  gory  field  ; 
Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast, 

On  many  a  bloody  shield : 
The  sunshine  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  there, 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  hero's  sepulchre. 

Rest  on  embalmed  and  sainted  dead  I 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave  ; 
No  impious  footsteps  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave  ; 
Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot, 

"While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  honor  points  the  hallowed  spot, 

Where  Yalor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceful  stone, 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell, 
When  many  a  vanished  year  hath  flown 

The  story  how  ye  fell ; 
Nor  wreck  nor  change  nor  Winter's  blight, 
•     Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom, 
Can  dim  one  ray  of  holy  light 

That  gilds  your  glorious  tomb. 


616  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


BY  J.    E.    BAKEICK. 


No  nobler  cause  than  this  of  thine, 

May  woman's  heart  engage, 
She  needs  no  prouder  place  to  win 

On  Fame's  immortal  page. 
Go  seek  them  in  their  graves  unknown, 

And  by  the  genial  bowers, 
Bid  on  each  spot  in  beauty  spring 

A  sisterhood  of  flowers. 

No  marble  slab,  or  graven  stone, 

Their  gallant  deeds  to  tell ; 
No  monument  to  mark  the  spot 

Where  they  with  glory  fell ; 
Their  names  shall  yet  a  herald  find 

In  every  tongue  of  fame, 
When  valley,  stream,  and  minstrel  voice, 

Shall  ring  with  their  acclaim. 

Plant  flowers  above  their  lonely  graves, 

The  ivy  let  entwine 
Its  tendrils  there,  and  there  be  set 

The  myrtle  and  the  vine  ; 
Memorials  of  your  love  shall  mark 

Each  consecrated  place, 
And  angels  wandering  down  from  Heaven, 

Will  love  the  spot  to  trace. 

All  o'er  the  land  like  Autumn  leaves, 
Borne  on  the  wailing  blast, 


GENERAL   STERLING-  PRICE.  617 

They  lie  with  no  mementoes  raised, 

To  link  them  with  the  past. 
Then  bid  the  sculptured  stone  renew 

The  stor  j  of  their  fame — 
Some  monument  to  after-time, 

Their  glory  to  proclaim. 

Bring  flowers  to  deck  each  patriot  grave, 

And  bless  the  vernal  sod, 
Where  sleep  those  fallen  ones,  whose  deeds 

Are  written  with  their  God  ;     _>    . 
Place  the  white  stone  above  each  head — 

The  sacred  spot  enclose — 
That  no  invading  step  may  break 

The  calm  of  their  repose. 


BY  M.    P.    8. 


JjOVED  chieftain  of  Missouri's  swords, 

In  Freedom's  cause  he  wore  the  gray, 
"When  fratricides  and  hireling  hordes 
Involved  the  South  in  frenzied  fray. 

In  civic  scenes,  in  battle's  strife, 
The  annals  of  his  blameless  life, 
His  manly  worth  superior  shone  ; 

Virtue  and  Valor  claim  their  own. 

His  peer  is  known  not  once  an  age 
In  modern  times  of  heroes  low ; 


618  THE   SOUTHEBN  AMARANTH. 

And  spacious  history's  proudest  page 
No  nobler,  dearer  name  can  show. 

What  though  to  him  no  laurelled  bust 
His  war-scarred  veterans  yet  may  raise? 

Nor  sculptured  shaft  above  his  dustt 
Demanding  fame  from  future  days  ? 

Their  children  lisp  in  artless  love 

His  glorious  deeds  and  honored  name  ; 

Can  conqueror's  crown  so  precious  prove, 
Can,  cloud-capped  column  aid  such  fame  ? 

To  the  fair  fields  beyond  the  shore 

That  bounds  the  wasteful  waves  of  Time, 

They  greet  one  radiant  spirit  more 
To  shine  in  that  celestial  clime. 


JGTAT .     71. 

THEY  fail  from  council  and  from  camp !  They  are  fall 
ing  one  by  one, 

Those  grand  old  heroes  of  the  stamp  of  God-loved 
Washington  I 

The  task  is  wrought  of  mighty  MEN,  their  glorious  day 
is  done, 

And  Freedom  mourns  a  faded  star  with  every  setting 
sun. 

The  mould  is  broken !  here  no  more  those  regal  souls 
we  meet, 


MAJOR  T.    M.    N.  619 

Who  kept  their  honor  tho'  the  world  had  rocked  be 
neath  their  feet, 

"With  that  clear  dignity  that  shone  no  clearer  for  re 
nown, 

That  matchless  majesty  that  won,  but  would  not  wear  a 
crown. 

The  massive  brow  I  the  kindly  hand !  the  proud  and 
stalwart  form, 

That  stood  as  beacons  in  the  night,  as  bulwarks  in  the 
storm  1 

How  few  and  far  in  Glory's  slope,  their  less'ning  num 
bers  stand  I 

The  pillars  of  a  people's  hope  I     The  Titans  of  a  land  ! 

Now  I  when  descends  the   sullen  night,  our  country's 

darkest  hour, 
When  Demagogue    and    Parasite   defile  the   seats   of 

Power ; 
When  dust  is  on  the  Eagle's  crest  and  stain  on  stripe 

and  star, 
Whose  limbs  shall  fill  their  robes  in  peace,  or  lift  their 

swords  in  war  ? 

One  more  to  that  immortal  band !  that  long  illustrious 

line, 
That  courts  no  nobler  name,  old  Friend !  no  purer  soul 

than  thine  1 
Thoul  with  the  mighty  in  their  death,  their  rest  and 

their  rewaid, 
Sleep !  in  thy  cloudless  fame  and  faith,  oh,  Soldier  of 

the  Lord ! 


620  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Yea,  with  the  mighty  in  thy  death !  yet  not  with  these 
alone, 

With  many  a  loving  heart  that  beat  most  truly  to  thine 
own: 

Sleep !  with  the  Sword-Cross  on  thy  breast,  the  well- 
worn  scabbard  by, 

Fit  symbols  of  a  Soldier's  rest,  and  his  reward  on  high ! 
THE  LAND  WE  LOVE. 


GEN.      OTHO       F.     STRAHL. 

BY  F. 

AMID  a  scene  of  carnage, 

Where  the  dead  and  wounded  lay, 
On  the  battle-field  at  Franklin, 

Our  leader  passed  away, 

His  comrades  gathered  round  him 

As  he  rested  on  his  bier, 
In  the  immobility  of  death — 

And  shed  a  manly  tear. 

Beneath  the  Southern  banners 
That  proudly  waved  on  high, 

With  his  gallant  comrades  round  him 
He  breathed  his  farewell  sigh. 

He  sleeps  no  more  to  waken, 
His  dreams  of  life  are  fled, 

His  rest  remains  unbroken — 
The  noble  warrior's  dead  1 


THE  MANY  NAMELESS.  621 

The  time  will  swiftly  pass  away, 

The  storm  of  war  will  cease, 
And  o'er  our  sunny  Southern  homes 

Will  brood  the  dove  of  peace, 

But  he  with  proud  unbending  form, 

"Will  never  come  again, 
His  battle's  fought,  his  warfare  o'er — 

He  sleeps  among  the  slain. 

The  autumn  wind  sighs  mournfully 

Around  that  lonely  grave  ; 
Then  sing  for  Strahl  a  requiem, 

Our  leader  true  and  brave. 


llw 


BY  MISS    MABY  MTJLLALY,    NEW  YOKE. 

LET  others  sing  in  glowing  verse  the  men  who 

gathered  laurel 
Upon  the  fields  where  North  and  South 

oft  met  in  deadly  quarrel  - 

The  deeds  which  will  a  glory  shed  upon 

the  page  historic, 
Or  gleam  from  dainty  blue  and  gold  or 

hide  in  tones  plethoric  - 

The  names  that  in  the  coming  years  will  second 
be  to  no  names, 

*  Special  Contribution 


622  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

But  in  Fame's  scroll  shine  forth  the  peers 
of  any  Greek's  or  Koman's. 

That  like  a  clarion  blast  will  rouse  some 

future  Tell  or  Brutus, 
And  when  we  lose  our  faith  in  man  stand 

forward  to  confute  us. 


But  we  will  sing  the  nameless  host  unknown 

in  song  or  story, 
Half  hidden  in  the  dazzling  light 

of  aggregated  glory 

The  men  whose  deeds  have  made  their  chiefs 

renowned  to  all  futurity 
While  they  loom  dimly  through  the  haze 

of  luminous  obscurity, — 

The  common  herd — the  rank  and  file, 

th'  anonymous  immortals 
Who  ope,  but  never  enter  through  Fame's 

glorious,  golden  portals ; 

Who  mined  and  trenched  and  marched  and  toiled, 

with  ardor  unabated, 
And  swept  across  the  battlefields  like 

whirlwinds  incarnated ; 

Whose  grand  impersonal  renown  adds  to  their 

country's  glory, 
But  gives  them  not  one  line  in  song,  and  not 

one  page  in  story. 


VIRGINIA'S  DEAD.  623 

Others  may  sing  the  glorious  chiefs,  whose  names 

will  live  forever, 
The  types  of  lofty  faith,  brave  deeds,  and 

noble,  high  endeavor — 

Who  showed  to  a  degenerate  age  what 

true  men  lay  a  stress  on, 
Hevived  man's  waning  faith  and  gave 

the  world  a  needed  lesson — 

Made  our  utilitarian  age  outshine  the 

age  heroic, 
And  softened  with  a  Christian  grace  the 

virtues  of  the  stoic — 

A  good  and  gracious  life  is  theirs,  a  noble 

and  a  blameless, 
But  while  they  praise  the  glorious  few, 

we'll  laud  the  many  nameless  ! 


PROUD  mother  of  a  race  that  reared 

The  brave  and  good  of  ours, 
Lo !  on  thy  bleeding  bosom  lie 

Thy  pale  and  cherished  flowers. 
Where'er  upon  their  own  bright  soil 

Hosts  meet  their  blood  to  shed, 
Where  brightest  gleams  the  victor's  sword, 

There  lie  Virginia's  dead. 


624  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

And  where  upon  the  crimson  field 

The  cannon  loudest  roars, 
And  hero-blood  for  liberty 

A  streaming  torrent  pours  ; 
Where  fiercest  glows  the  battle's  rage, 

And  Southern  banners  spread, 
Where  minions  crouch  and  vassals  kneel, 

There  lie  Virginia's  dead. 


Where  bright  Potomac's  classic  wave 

Flows  softly  to  the  sea, 
And  Shenandoah's  valley  smiles 

In  her  captivity ; 
Where  sullen  Mississippi  rolls, 

By  foaming  torrents  fed, 
And  Tennessee's  smooth  ripple  breaks — 

There  lie  Virginia's  dead. 


And  where  'mid  dreary  mountain-heights 

The  frost-king  sternly  sate, 
As  Garnett  cheered  his  followers  on, 

And  nobly  met  his  fate  ; 
Where  Johnston,  Lee,  and  Beauregard 

Their  gallant  armies  led, 
Through  winter  snows  and  tropic  suns, 

There  sleep  Virginia's  dead. 


And  where  through  Georgia's  flowery  meads 

The  proud  Savannah  flows, 
And  soft  o'er  Carolina's  brow 

Atlantic's  pure  breeze  blows ; 


VIRGINIA'S  DEAD.  625 

Where  Florida's  sweet  tropic  flowers 

Their  dewy  fragrance  shed, 
And  night-winds  sigh  through  orange-groves, 

There  sleep  Virginia's  dead. 


Where  sad  Louisiana's  eye 

Looks  darkly  on  her  chains, 
And  proud  New  Orleans'  noble  streets 

The  despot's  heel  profanes  ; 
Where  virtue  shrinks  in  dread  dismay, 

And  beauty  bows  her  head, 
Where  courage  spurns  the  oppressor's  yoke, 

There  lie  Virginia's  dead. 


'  Neath  Alabama's  sunny  skies — 

On  Texas'  burning  shore — 
Where  blooming  prairies  brightly  sweep 

Missouri's  bosom  o'er — 
Where  bold  Kentucky's  lion  heart 

Leaps  to  her  Morgan's  tread, 
And  tyrants  quail  at  Freedom's  cry, 

There  sleep  Virginia's  dead. 


And  where  the  ocean's  trackless  waves 

O'er  pallid  corpses  sweep, 
As  'mid  the  cannon's  thunder-peel 

"  Deep  calleth  unto  deep ;" 
Wherever  Honor's  sword  is  drawn, 

And  Justice  rears  her  head, 
Where  heroes  fall  and  martyrs  bleed, 

There  rest  Virginia's  dead  I 
27 


626  THE   SOUTHERN  AMAEANTH. 


BY  JOHN   B.    SMITH. 


[Among  those  killed  in  the  battles  before  Nashville,  was  a  beautiful  Confed 
erate  boy,  apparently  not  more  than  fifteen  years  of  age.] 


ON  the  hard-fought  field,  where  the  battle-storm 

Had  echoed  its  sullen  thunder, 
Lay  a  soldier-child,  with  the  golden  thread 

Of  his  young  life  snapped  asunder. 


He  had  comrades  stark,  in  the  great  death-sleep, 
Lying  cold  in  their  bloody  places ; 

But  they  were  bearded  men  with  stalwart  frames, 
And  man's  look  on  their  faces. 


But  this  soldier-child,  with  his  silken  locks 
O'er  his  smooth  white  forehead  sweeping, 

With  a  horrid  wound  in  his  brave  young  breast, 
Seemed  too  fair  for  Death's  grim  keeping. 


For  his  beardless  face,  in  its  calm  repose, 
Bore  the  mark  of  Beauty's  finger, 

And  his  fine  sweet  mouth  seemed  the  tempting  spot 
Where  a  woman's  lips  might  linger. 


TOO   YOUNG   TO   DIE.  627 

Like  slender  shadows  on  fleecy  snow, 

O'er  his  cheek  crept  the  fringing  lashes 

Of  the  white  closed  lids  of  his  great  dark  eyes, 
All  veined  with  faint,  azure  flashes. 


O'er  the  wounded  breast,  with  a  touching  grace, 

His  delicate  hands  were  folded, 
With  a  meek  soft  clasp,  as  if  for  a  prayer 

Their  dying  shape  was  moulded. 


I  thought,  as  beside  this  warrior  child 
Mine  own  young  head  was  bending, 

That  perhaps  an  angel  mother's  prayers 
Were  heavenward  then  ascending  : 


That  the  arm  of  the  Father  who  dwelleth  where 

Sweet  peace  is  never-ending, 
Might  be  found  in  the  battle's  dreaded  hour 

Her  darling  boy  defending. 


I  thought  how  the  voice  of  the  false-faced  world 
Would  waft  her  the  mournful  story, 

With  its  pompous  words  for  a  healing  balm, 
And  its  mocking  meed  of  glory. 


But  that  mother's  breast  with  its  hopeless  grief 
And  its  mighty  pain  is  aching ; — 

The  chaplet  of  Fame  is  a  withered  wreath, 
When  a  mother's  heart  is  breaking. 


628  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 


BY   S.    Y.    LEVY,    SAVANNAH,    GA. 


ALMIGHTY  GOD  !  eternal  Sire  and  King  ! 

Kuler  Supreme,  who  all  things  didst  create  ; 
Whose  everlasting  praises  angels  sing  ; 

Whose  word  is  mercy  and  whose  thought  is  fate  ; 


Trembling  before  Thy  awful,  awful  throne  we  kneel, 
Beseeching  mercy  at  Thy  gracious  hand  ; 

Praying  that  in  compassion  Thou  wilt  heal 

The  bleeding  wounds  of  this  most  suffering  land. 

We  know  our  sins  are  manifold,  O  Lord, 
And  that  Thy  wrath  against  us  is  but  right ; 

For  we  have  wandered  widely  from  Thy  word, 
And  things  committed  wrongful  in  Thy  sight. 

But  Thou,  O  Lord,  art  powerful  to  save, 
And  full  of  mercy,  full  of  love  art  Thou  ; 

Else  had  we  not  the  courage  thus  to  brave 

Thy  righteous  wrath — thus  at  Thy  feet  we  bow* 

O'er  all  our  fields,  where  late  the  joyful  air 
Struck  rustling  music  from  the  waving  grain, 

•Now  the  sad  earth  is  lying  stark  and  bare, 
Or  groaning  'neath  the  burden  of  our  slain. 


A   PRAYER  FOR   PEACE.  629 

In  sackcloth  robed,  disconsolate  and  wild, 
With  ashes  strewed  upon  her  lovely  breast, 

Our  country  mourns  her  hearts  and  homes  denied — 
Weeps  for  her  bravest,  and  bewails  her  best. 


Trom  the  cold  hearths,  where  lately  genial  fires 
Beamed  upon  scenes  of  innocent  delight, 

The  little  children  vainly  call  their  sires, 

Or  fly  their  burning  homes  with  wild  affright. 


Our  punishment  is  very  hard  to  bear  ; 

We  droop  and  faint  beneath  Thy  chastening  rod ; 
Oh,  list  in  mercy  to  our  earnest  prayer, 

And  move  Thy  anger  from  us,  O  our  God  ! 


"Throw,  Lord,  thy  buckler  thick  'twixt  us  and  harm  ; 

Bid  the  destruction  and  the  carnage  cease  ; 
Outstretch  in  power  Thy  all-protecting  arm  ; 

Roll  back  the  clouds  of  war,  and  give  us  peace. 


.And  as  Thou  led'st  Thy  chosen  people  forth 
From  Egypt's  sullen  wrath,  O  King  of  kings  ! 

;So  smite  the  armies  of  the  cruel  North, 

And  bear  us  to  our  hopes  "  on  eagle's  wings." 


But  should  Thy  wisdom  still  defer  the  day — 
The  wished-for  day  our  freedom  shall  be  won — 

Oh,  grant  us  the  humility  to  say, 

Not  human  will,  but  Thine,  O  Lord,  be  done  ! 


630  THE  SOUTHERN  AMARANTH, 


[A  Confederate  officer,  Major  Roberdore  Wheat,  while  leading  a  charge  ins 
one  of  the  battles  before  Richmond,  fell  mortally  wounded,  exclaiming - 
*'  Bury  me  on  the  field,  boys !"] 


BY  MISS  MARY   8.    GRASON,   MARYLAND. 

BURY  me  on  the  field,  boys  ! 

When  the  deadly  strife  is  o'er  ; 
This  trusty  blade  I'll  wield,  boys, 

For  our  firesides  never  more  : 
Come,  raise  my  head,  I  scarce  can  hear 

The  thundering  cannon's  roar. 

Bury  me  where  the  countless  dead 

In  dreamless  slumber  rest, 
Where  the  charger's  iron  hoof  may  tread 

O'er  the  sod  that  wraps  my  breast ; 
Here  let  me  sleep,  since  victory 

Our  glorious  cause  hath  blessed. 

Yes,  lay  me  here,  where  these  pine-trees 

In  the  evening's  solemn  hush, 
Where  stars  may  shine  on  my  lowly  grave, 

Where  the  morning  sun  may  blush  ; 
And  I'll  be  proud  to  rest,  boys, 

Where  our  dauntless  columns  rush. 

Shed  not  one  tear  for  me — nay,  never, 
My  comrades  brave  and  bold  ; 

I  shrink  not  back  from  that  dark  river 
Which  flows  so  icy  cold  ; 


MAXCY   GREGG.  631 

But  wish  my  mother  could  hold  my  hand, 
And  kiss  me  as  of  old. 

My  sight  is  growing  strangely  dim, 

I  feel  Death's  chilly  wing  ; 
Methought  I  heard  the  cradle-hymn 

My  mother  used  to  sing  ; 
Strange  how  such  pleasant  fantasies 

This  parting  hour  should  bring. 

Nay,  pause  not  by  my  side,  boys, 
See  where  our  flag  on  high 

Floats  o'er  the  battle's  tide,  boys- 
Haste  !  to  that  standard  fly — 

And  tell  my  dear  old  mother,  boys, 
Her  son  knew  how  to  die. 

Bury  him  on  the  field,  boys, 

By  light  of  the  dying  sun, 
With  the  sword  he  used  to  wield,  boys, 

For  the  conflict  now  is  done  ; 
Nor  weep,  for  that  warrior  brave,  boys, 

A  double  crown  hath  won. 


BY   C.    G.    P. 


LONG  have  I  lingered  by  the  lovely  mount 

Where  our  great  hero  lies, 
To  hear  some  gifted  bard  in  song  recount 

His  deeds  of  high  emprise  ; 


632  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Some  great  historic  minstrel  sweep  the  string, 

And  downward  fling 
A  requiem  telling  of  a  nation's  grief — 

Bringing  the  soul  relief — 
Or  chant  of  praise,  to  roll  for  aye  along 

A  deathless  tide  of  song, 

Spreading  and  deepening  till  our  rising  youth, 
Laved  by  its  sacred  wave,  reflect  its  crystal  truth. 

No  sound  of  voice  was  heard, 

Save  "  cherup"  of  a  bird  ; 
Sharp — falling  in  the  still — or,  to  ear  attent, 

The  far-off  river  lent 
The  pleasant  music  of  its  soothing  moan, 
Bushing  o'er  bed  of  stone. 

All  hushed !  but  now  a  note 

Seems  on  the  breeze  to  float, 
Borne  upward  from  the  city,  spreading  fair 

Beneath  the  golden  air 

Of  the  rich  sunset  hour  ; 

No  voice  of  strength  or  power 
But  the  sweet  tribute  of  a  youthful  heart 

Ready  to  do  his  part : 

*  Who,  since  the  great  heroic  bards  are  mute, 
Strikes  with  the  hand  of  love  his  garland  dighted 
lute. 

*'  ;-          '#"#  V#  "#;.-£« 

"  'Twas  in  the  winter  wild" 
They  bore  her  dauntless  child 
Back  to  his  mother  on  his  spotless  shield, 


*  Lines  on  the  death  of  Gen.  Gregg,  by  a  lad  of  thirteen. 


NAXCY   GKEGG. 


633 


And  laid  him  to  his  rest 

Within  her  yearning  breast, 
Where,  like  a  happy  child,  he  now  reposes ; 

And,  as  in  days  of  yore, 

His  morning  gambols  o'er, 
He  lay  all  flushed  and  happy  from  his  toy, 

And  slept — their  darling  boy — 

Between  his  parents,  so  in  death  he  lies 

'Neath  Carolina's  skies, 
While  Spring,  her  crown  of  roses 

Half  shaded  in  a  drapery  of  woe, 

Comes  on  with  footsteps  slow 
To  scatter  flowers  upon  the  triple  mound 

Soft  swelling  from  the  ground, 
"Where  they  whose  love  was  stronger  far  than  death, 

Wait  the  reviving  breath 

Of  that  fresh  morn  when  bursting  graves  shall  yield 
The  precious  seed  laid  up  to  bloom  in  heavenly  field. 

Struck  down  in  noon  of  life 

Amid  the  battle  strife  ! 
What  great  eclipse  fell  then  upon  the  State ! 

How  dimly  broke  the  morn — 

How  sad  ! — whose  early  dawn 
'Came  ushered  in  with  tidings  of  thy  fate  ! 
Carolina,  in  her  darksome  grief, 
JBowed  low  her  stately  head,  and  sought  in  tears 
relief. 

Patriot  and  statesman  true  ! 
Long  shall  thy  country  rue 

The  keen-eyed  watchman,  wont  from  silent  tower, 
With,  calm,  prophetic  gaze, 

27* 


634  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

To  scan  the  rising  haze 
That  o'er  the  sunny  South  began  to  lower  ; 
Presaging  that  the  hour  was  nigh 
When  a  terrific  storm  should  sweep  across  the  sky. 


It  came  with  bloody  hue. 

Thy  sword — the  tried  and  true — 
Leapt  from  its  scabbard,  where  it  long  had  lain ; 

And  in  thy  grasp  of  might, 

All  glowing  for  the  fight, 
Streamed  like  a  meteor  o'er  the  gory  plain  ! 
Each  soldier  hailed  its  cheering  ray, 
And  followed  with  a  shout  where'er  it  led  the  way  ! 

Quick  at  its  chieftain's  call 

He  left  the  council  hall, 
With  statesmen  met,  to  save  the  common  weal — 

Heady  for  any  fate, 

So  he  could  check  the  hate 
Of  foes  vindictive  in  their  deadly  zeal. 
But  not  on  Carolina's  soil 
Was  he  to  meet  the  blow  that  eased  him  of  his  toil. 


'Twas  'neath  thy  saddened  eyes 

He  paid  that  sacrifice, 
Virginia !     But  his  last  fond  sigh  was  given 

To  his  loved  home  afar, 

His  true  soul's  polar  star  ; 
For  her  he  rendered  back  his  life  to  Heaven  ; 
And  cheerfully  his  languid  eye 

Saw,  through  the  film  of  death,  her  independence 
nigh. 


THE   ASHBYS.  635 

A  pure  immortal  fame 

Gilds  his  heroic  name, 
Which  soon  the  polished  marble  shall  record  : 

Thank  God,  we  here  may  write 

With  pencil  dipped  in  light, 
"  He  placed  his  hope  in  the  Eternal  Word, 
And  on  his  Saviour's  breast 
Laid  his  war-wearied  head  in  calm  and  peaceful  rest. 


BY   DAN.   B.   LUCAS. 


AND  lo !  there  galloped  through  the  gate  of  war 
Two  brothers,  riding  side  by  side,  with  spurs, 

And  nodding  plumes,  and  swords  that  gleamed  in  air, 
And  eyes  like  day,  when  first  the  sun  appears. 

They  strode  their  steeds  as  Neptune  strides  the  sea,. 
And  mane  to  mane  they  bounded  through  the  vale 
Like  music,  or  like  laughter  on  the  gale, 

And  smiled  at  Danger,  as  more  brave  than  he. 


Their  long,  black  locks  played  in  our  Southern  wind,. 

Which  left  the  orange-buds  and  citron-grove 
To  follow  them,  though  often -left  behind 

'  Plaining,  in  soft  Eolian  sighs  of  love. 


*  Turner  and  Richard  Ashby. 


636  THE   SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

One  fatal  morning  laid  the  younger  low — 
No  more  by  rattling  hoof  of  his,  the  fawn 
Was  startled,  as  she  browsed  the  hill  at  dawn— 

No  more  his  bugle-blast  struck  terror  to  the  foe. 


His  brother  dead,  like  Leda's  Jove-born  son 
On  milk-white  steed,  among  the  Argive  youth, 

The  ASHBY,  'mid  his  Southern  comrades  shone, 
Craving  one  immortality  for  both  ; 

Pull  oft  at  dawn  Potomac  saw  him  nigh, 
His  beard  upon  his  charger  flowing  free — 
(A  black-swan's  wing  upon  the  frothy  sea) — 

The  war-gaze  filling  all  his  dark,  romantic  eye. 


By  eve  the  fount  far  up  some  Hampshire  dell 
Laughed  in  the  snowy  fetlocks  of  his  steed ; 

The  star-begotten  river  knew  him  well — 
Oft  broke  his  image  on  her  rocky  bed ; 

And  Tuscarora,  with  her  maiden  mien, 

Swayed  to  the  horseman  as  he  rode  beside, 
Silent  as  she,  and  deeper  than  her  tide, 

A  knightly  form  as  ever  water-nymph  had  seen. 


"Stern  only  to  the  foe,  his  name  a  spell 

Won  on  the  soldiers'  hearts,  and  made  him  dear, 
Till  off  the  edge  of  war  the  Ashby  fell — 

Dropped  from  the  cope,  and  went  out  like  a  star. 
Here  lie  the  twain  ;  their  epitaph  be  this  : 
"  THESE  BROTHERS  STRUGGLING  ONE  JUST  CAUSE  TO  GAIN, 

ONE  IMMORTALITY  ACHIEVED  IN  VAIN  ; 
AND  NOW  TOGETHER  SLEEP  IN  ONE  SWEET  DREAM  OF  PEACE. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  BRIG-GEN.  JENKINS.          G37 

"  THEY  ARE  NOT  DEATH'S  !  KELINQUISHED  ALL  HIS  CLAIM  ! 

THEIR  DEEDS  TO  HISTORY  AND  IMMORTAL  SONG, 
THEIR  SOULS  TO  GOD,  THEIR  MEMORIES  TO  FAME, 

THEIR  ASHES  TO  VIRGINIA  BELONG  !" 
Sleep,  heroes !  with  no  weight  but  flowers,  sleep  ! 

Your  mother,  like  the  osprey,  makes  her  nest 

For  you  with  feathers  plucked  from  her  own  breast, 
Until  the  trumpet  sound ;  then,  seabirds,wing  the  deep  I 


At  Summerville,  Whitsunday,  May  15th,  1864. 


BY  c.  G.  P. 


BRING  blossons  from  the  rosy  beds  of  May, 
Bay  from  the  woodland,  Mrytle  from  the  bowers, 
And  Arbor-vitse,  whose  enduring  leaf 
Symbols  the  life  eternal ;  and  let  fair  hands 
"Weave  them  in  garlands  to  adorn  the  mound 
"Where  sleeps  the  brave  and  true.     Sweet  his  repose 
Near  the  maternal  bosom,  from  whose  fount 
He  drew  the  virtues  that  made  up  his  life. 
A  few  short  weeks  ago  that  silent  breast 
Throbbed  with  a  holy  joy,  when  to  her  heart 
The  mother  pressed  her  young,  heroic  son, 
And  bade  him,  with  her  blessing,  go  again 
And  battle  for  his  country.     Far  then  seemed 
Their  day  of  meeting — but  God  brought  it  near. 


638  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

Here  is  no  martial  note  or  organ's  swell, 

To  honor,  with  its  wild  or  solemn  strain, 

Our  hero's  burial ;  only  one  lone  bird 

Pours  on  the  fragrant  air  a  shower  of  song. 

Sing  on,  sweet  warbler  !  for  what  holier  note 

Can  charm  him  to  his  rest  than  thine — Heaven-taught, 

And  flowing  like  the  angels',  from  a  breast 

Wholly  at  peace  with  God  ?   Heart-soothing  strain ! 

How  different  from  the  noisy  din  of  strife — 

The  war-trump  and  the  cannon's  awful  roar ! 

Glide  softly  to  the  mourners'  sorrowing  hearts, 

And  fit  them  for  the  promise  of  this  day — 

The  Comforter  sent  forth  to  all  who  weep, 

And  bearing  dews  of  healing  on  his  wing. 

One  blessed  Sabbath,  when  the  Lenten  fast 

Was  drawing  to  its  close,  and  streaks  of  light, 

As  heralding  the  glorious  Easter  morn, 

Began  to  pierce  the  gloom,  we  saw  thee  bow 

Within  this  temple  ;  and  on  bended  knee 

Tleceive  in  reverent  hand  the  bread  divine, 

And  carry  to  thy  lips  the  wine  of  life, 

Which,  to  the  heart  of  faith,  is  heavenly  food. 

We  little  dreamed  it  thy  viaticum, 

And  that  by  Whitsuntide  thy  mortal  frame 

Would  have  been  given  to  the  silent  dust, 

With  tears  of  kindred  and  a  nation's  grief. 

We  thought  to  see  thee  in  the  coming  time, 

When  meek-eyed  Peace  has  once  more  blessed  our 

land, 

Wearing  the  laurel-wreath  thy  valor  won, 
And  clothed  in  garments  of  prosperity ; 
Living  to  good  old  age,  with  "  troops  of  friends," 


DECORATING  THE  GRAVES  OF  OUR  DEAD.    639 

And  children's  children  gathered  round  thy  hearth — 
Thy  warm,  bright,  Southern  hearth — to  hear  thee  tell 
Of  deeds  of  prowess  by  our  heroes  wrought 
In  the  great  struggle,  but  with  modest  grace 
Setting  aside  thine  own.     We  fondly  dreamed  ; 
-But  God  has  willed  it  otherwise.     Farewell ! 
True  soldier  of  thy  country  and  of  Christ ! 
"With  what  assured  hope  we  leave  thee  here, 
To  wait  the  archangel  trump  ! — Thy  spirit  fled 
Upon  the  shout  of  triumph  ;  and  the  sound 
Took  a  seraphic  sweetness,  as  thy  soul, 
Nearing  the  gate  of  Paradise,  was  met 
By  throngs  of  white-robed  spirits,  bearing  palms, 
And  singing  hymns  of  victory  and  peace. 


April  26th,  1867. 

BY  LEOLA,   GEORGIA. 

THE  battle  shout  is  heard  no  more, 

The  thundering  guns  are  silent  now, 
The  flag  we  loved  is  folded  o'er, 
And  Death  sleeps  on  the  soldier's  brow. 
Dark  is  the  gloom 
Around  his  tomb, 
"Where  weeping  loved  ones  lowly  bow. 

The  voice  of  triumph  echoes  not 
Its  thrilling  strains  upon  the  air, 


640  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

No  victor's  song  awakes  the  spot, 
No  marble  rears  its  head  so  fair, 

But,  thanks,  to  God, 

That  precious  sod 
Hides  no  unfeeling  ruffian  there  ! 

High-toned  and  brave,  he  asked  no  fame, 

No  pageant  grand  or  gilded  shrine, 
But  he  has  left  "  a  deathless  name," 
And  memories  that  no  foe  can  bind, 
Whose  virtues  bright, 
In  endless  light, 
Through  all  eternity  will  shine. 

For  who  could  e'er  forget  that  there 

A  JACKSON  or  a  JOHNSTON  fell? 
Can  those  who've  robbed  us  ever  dare 
To  take  e'en  memories  loved  so  well  ? 
No !  Tyrant  hands 
May  take  our  lands, 
But  ne'er  such  glorious  deeds  expel. 

Then  let  us  wreath  in  garlands  sweet 

The  flowers  that  April  brings  again  ;, 
From  broad  Potomac's  silvery  sheet 
To  Florida's  lone  sandy  plain, 
Let  cypress  wave 
O'er  every  grave, 
Where  gently  rest  our  gallant  slain. 

How  many  homes  have  been  bereft, 
Of  all  in  life  they  held  so  dear ! 

How  many  aching  hearts  are  left 
To  weep  in  anguish  o'er  the  bier ! 


THE  TOMB   OF  ALBERT   SIDNEY   JOHNSTON.         641 

Then  let  us  all, 
Both  great  and  small, 
Unite  together  once  a  year, 

To  mourn,  o'er  Freedom's  hallowed  grave, 

A  ruined  country's  broken  trust — 
O'er  those  who  bled  our  rights  to  save, 
But  now  lie  mouldering  in  the  dust. 
'Tis  sacred  ground — 
Then  strew  around 
The  gifts  of  One  forever  just. 

Near  Cumberland's  dark  rolling  wave, 

An  eldest  brother  peaceful  sleeps  : 
Perhaps  sometimes  upon  his  grave, 
A  sympathizing  stranger  weeps ; 
And  should  she  there 
Place  flowers  fair, 
When  twilight  over  Franklin  creeps, 

I  know  that  one  lone  widowed  heart 

The  kindly  deed  will  ever  bless, 
And  tears  from  thankful  children  start, 
"Who  miss  the  father's  fond  caress. 
Ah  !  'tis  sweet  to  feel 
That  we  may  heal 
A  heart  that's  bleeding  in  distress. 


EPITAPH. 

[A  lady  correspondent,  in  a  recent  stroll  through  the  St.  Louis  Cemeteiy, 
visited  the  grave  of  General  Albert  Sidney  Johnston,  and  found  a  written 
epitaph,  pasted  upon  a  rough  hoard  attached  to  the  torah.  In  her  note  to  T. 


642  THE   SOUTHERN  AMARANTH. 

T.  our  fair  correspondent  says  she  was  affected  to  tears  upon  reading  it,  and 
took  the  trouble  to  copy  it  verbatim.  She  begs  us  to  find  out  the  author,  and 
she  should  be  gratified  in  that  desire  if  it  were  possible  for  T.  T.  to  do  so. — 
Town  Talk  of  the  New  Orleans  Times.} 

IN  MEMORIAM. 

Behind  this  stone  is  laid, 

For  a  season, 

ALBERT  SIDNEY  JOHNSTON, 

A  General  in  the  Army  of  the  Confederate  States, 
"Who  fell  at  Shiloh,  Tennessee, 

On  the  sixth  day  of  April, 

A.  D.  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-two  ; 

A  man  tried  in  many  high  offices 

And  critical  enterprises, 

And  found  faithful  in  all. 

His  life  was  one  long  sacrifice  of  interest  to  conscience ; 

And  even  that  life,  on  a  woful  Sabbath, 
Did  he  yield  as  a  holocaust  at  his  country's  need. 

Not  wholly  understood  was  he  while  he  lived  ; 
But  in  his  death  his  greatness  stands  confessed 

In  a  people's  tears. 

Resolute,  moderate,  clear  of  envy,  yet  not  wanting 

In  that  finer  ambition  that  makes  men  great  and  pure  \ 

In  his  honor — impregnable  ; 

In  his  simplicity — sublime  ; 

No  country  e'er  had  a  truer  son — no  cause  a  nobler 

champion  ; 
No  people  a  bolder  defender — no  principle  a  purer 

victim, 
Than  the  dead  soldier 

Who  sleeps  here  ! 

The  cause  for  which  he  perished  is  lost — 
The  people  for  whom  he  fought  are  crushed — • 
The  hopes  in  which  he  trusted  are  shattered — 


IN   MEMORIAM — D.    J.    R.  643 

The  flag  lie  loved  guides  no  more  the  charging  lines  ; 
But  his  fame,  consigned  to  the  keeping  of  that  time 

which, 
Happily,  is  not  so  much  the  tomb  of  Virtue  as  its 

shrine, 
Shall,  in  the  years  to  come,  fire  modest  worth  to  noble 

ends. 
In  honor  now  our  great  captain  rests  ; 

A  bereaved  people  mourn  him  ; 
Three  commonwealths  proudly  claim  him  ; 

And  history  shall  cherish  him 

Among  those  choicer  spirits  who,  holding  their  con 
science  unmixed  with  blame, 

Have  been,  in  all  conjunctures,  true  to  themselves, 
their  country,  and  their  God. 


f » 

I5Y  MOINA— (REV.    A.    J.    RYAN.) 

THOU  art  sleeping,  brother,  sleeping, 

In  thy  lonely  battle  grave  ; 
Shadows  o'er  the  past  are  creeping — 
Death,  the  Eeaper,  still  is  reaping — 
Years  have  swept,  and  years  are  sweeping 
Many  a  memory  from  my  keeping, 
But  I'm  waiting  still  and  weeping 

For  my  Beautiful  and  Brave. 

When  the  battle  songs  were  chanted, 

And  war's  stirring  tocsin  pealed  ; 
By  whose  songs  thy  heart  was  haunted 
And  thy  spirit  proud,  undaunted, 


644  THE    SOUTHERN   AMARANTH. 

Clamored  wildly — wildly  panted — 
"  Mother  !  let  my  wish  be  granted  ! 
I  will  ne'er  be  mocked  and  taunted 
That  I  feared  to  meet  our  vaunted 
Foeman  on  the  bloody  field." 

"  They  are  thronging,  mother,  thronging 

To  a  thousand  fields  of  fame  ! 
Let  me  go — 'tis  wrong — 'tis  wronging 
God  and  thee  to  crush  this  longing. 
On  the  muster-roll  of  glory, 
In  my  country's  future  story, 
On  the  field  of  battle  gory, 

I  must  consecrate  my  name. 

"  Mother,  gird  my  sword  upon  me  ; 

Kiss  thy  soldier-boy  '  good-bye  :'  " 
In  her  arms  she  wildly  wound  thee, 
To  thy  birthland's  cause  she  bound  thee, 
"With  fond  prayers  and  blessings  crowned  thee, 
And  she  sobbed — "  When  foes  surround  thee, 
If  you  fall,  I'll  know  they  found  thee 

"Where  the  bravest  love  to  die." 
•x-  -x-  *  #• 

At  the  altar  of  their  nation 

Stood  that  mother  and  her  son : 
He — the  victim  of  oblation, 
Panting  for  his  immolation  ; 
She — in  priestess'  holy  station 
Weeping  words  of  consecration, 
While  God  smiled  his  approbation, 
Blessed  the  boy's  self-abnegation, 
Cheered  the  mother's  desolation, 

When  the  sacrifice  was  done. 


IN   MEMOKIAM — D.   J.    K.  645 

Forth,  like  many  a  noble  other, 
Went  he  whispering  soft  and  low, 

"  Good-bye — pray  for  me,  my  mother  ! 

Sister,  kiss  me  ! — farewell,  brother  !" 

And  he  strove  his  grief  to  smother. 

Forth,  with  spirit  proud  and  peerless — 

Forth,  with  footsteps  firm  and  fearless, 

And  his  parting  gaze  was  tearless, 

Though  his  heart  was  lone  and  cheerless 
Thus  from  all  he  loved  to  go. 


Jjo  !  yon  flag  of  freedom  flashing 

In  the  sunny  Southern  sky  ! 
On — to  death  and  glory  dashing — 
On — where  swords  are  clanging — clashing — 
On — where  balls  are  crushing — crashing  ! 
On — 'mid  perils,  dread,  appalling  ! 
On — they're  falling — falling — falling  ! 
On — they're  growing  fewer — fewer  ! 
On — their  hearts  beat  all  the  truer  ! 
On — on — on — no  fear — no  falter  ! 
On — though  'round  the  battle-altar 
There  were  wounded  victims  groaning — 
There  were  dying  victims  moaning — 
On — right  on — death — danger  braving — 
Warring  where  their  flag  was  waving, 
And  baptismal  blood  was  laving 
With  a  tide  of  crimson  water 
All  that  field  of  death  and  slaughter  ! 

On — still  on — that  bloody  laver 

Made  them  brave  and  made  them  braver ; 

On — with  never  a  halt  or  waver — 
On  they're  battling — bleeding — bounding, 


646  THE   SOUTHERN   AMAKANTH. 

While  the  glorious  shout  is  sounding, 
"  We  will  win  the  day  or  die  !" 

And  they  won  it !     Eouted — riven — 
Keeled  the  foeman's  proud  array ; 
They  had  struggled  long  and  striven, 
Blood  in  torrents  they  had  given, 
But  their  ranks,  dispersed  and  driven, 
Fled  disgracefully  away. 

Many  a  heart  was  lonely  lying 
There  that  would  not  throb  again  ; 

Some  were  dead  and  some  were  dying ; 

Some  were  silent,  some  were  sighing ; 

Thus  to  die — lone — unattended — 

Unbewept  and  unbefriended — 
On  that  bloody  battle  plain. 

When  the  twilight,  sadly,  slowly 

Wrapped  its  mantle  o'er  them  all — 
O'er  those  thousands  lying  lowly — 
Hushed  in  silence  deep  and  holy — 
There  was  one — his  blood  was  flowing, 
And  his  last  of  life  was  going — 
And  his  pulse  faint — fainter  beating, 
Told  his  hours  were  few  and  fleeting  ; 
And  his  brow  grew  white  and  whiter, 
And  his  eyes  shone  bright  and  brighter 
There  he  lay  like  infant  dreaming, 
With  his  sword  beside  him  gleaming  ; 
For  the  hand  in  life  that  grasped  it, 
True  to  death  still  fondly  clasped  it. 
There  his  comrades  found  him  lying, 
'Mid  the  heaps  of  dead  and  dying ; 


THE   LAND    OF  MEMORIES.  647 

And  the  sternest  there  bent  weeping, 
O'er  that  lonely  sleeper  sleeping. 
'Twas  the  midnight — stars  shone  'round  him — 
In  a  shroud  of  glory  bound  him  ; 
And  they  told  us  how  they  found  him 
Where  the  bravest  love  to  fall. 


Where  the  woods,  like  banners  bending, 

Drooped  in  glory  and  in  gloom — 
There,  when  that  sad  night  was  ending, 
And  the  faint,  fair  dawn  was  blending 
With  the  stars  now  fast  descending — 
There  they  mute  and  mournful  bore  him — 
With  the  stars  and  shadows  o'er  him — 
There  they  laid  him  down,  so  tender, 
And  the  next  day's  sun  and  splendor 
Flashed  upon  my  brother's  tomb  ! 


REV.    A.    J.   RYAN. 

A  land  "without  ruins  is  a  land  without  memories — a  land  without 
memories  is  a  land  without  liberty.  A  land  that  wears  a  laurel 
crown  may  be  fair  to  see,  but  twine  a  few  sad  cypress  leaves  around 
the  brow  of  any  land,  and  be  that  land  beautiless  and  bleak,  it 
becomes  lovely  in  its  consecrated  coronet  of  sorrow  and  it  wins  the 
sympathy  of  the  heart  and  history.  Crowns  of  roses  fade,— crowns 
of  thorns  endure.  Calvaries  and  crucifixes  take  deepest  hold  of 
humanity— the  triumphs  of  might  are  transient,  they  pass  away  and 
are  forgotten — the  sufferings  of  right  are  graven  deepest  on  the  chron 
icles  of  nations. 


648  THE   SOUTHERN    AMARANTH. 

YES  !  give    me  a  land  where  the  ruins  are  spread, 
And  the  living  tread  light  on  the  hearts  of  the  dead ; 
Yes,  give  me  a  land  that  is  blest  by  the  dust, 
And  bright  with  the  deeds  of  the  down- trodden  just 
Yes,  give  me  the  land  where  the  battle's  red  blast 
Has  flashed  on  the  future  the  form  of  the  past ; 
Yes,  give  me  the  land  that  hath  legend  and  lays 
That  tell  of  the  memories  of  long  vanished  days  ; 
Yes,  give  me  a  land  that  hath  story  and  song, 
To  tell  of  the  strife  of  the  right  with  the  wrong ; 
Yes,  give  me  the  land  with  a  grave  in  each  spot, 
And  names  in  the  graves  that  shall  not  be  forgot : 
Yes,  give  me  the  land  of  the  wreck  and  the  tomb, 
There's  a  grandeur  in  graves — there's  a  glory  in  gloom— 
For  out  of  the  gloom  future  brightness  is  born, 
As  after  the  night  looms  the  sunrise  of  morn  ; 
And  the  graves  of  the  dead,  with  the  grass  overgrown, 
May  yet  form  the  footstool  of  liberty's  throne, 
And  each  single  wreck  in  the  war-path  of  might, 
Shall  yet  be  a  rock  in  the  temple  of  Eight 

NEW  YOKE  FREEMAN'S  JOUBNAL. 


THE  END. 


6 


''!>  -I-lOOw-8,'34 


